


Stranger Than Fanfiction

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anyway let's talk about this, Boys are back in town, Did anyone miss me?, F/M, Honestly my tags are trash how does anyone find my stories?, I am once again asking you... to read my fic, Mentions of TUmble and Ao3, Meta stuff, TRICK! ...only some of us are, There's a monster (shocking), There's also some other weird stuff happening, WE'RE ALL GETTING WRITTEN INTO THIS THING, You don't have to have seen the film to read this story, also Tumblr doesn't get the PLEASURE of chapter titles so be greateful my lovely Ao3 readers, but it's a great film so I reccomend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: A story about a story, being written about you.Y/N spends her days on paperwork and procedure. In the worst days of people’s lives, she is the full stop at the end of the sentence. When a loved one is lost , she replaces the irreplaceable; by completing the insurance claim. Her work sits on the outskirts of tragedy, far away enough that she pretends to have a normal life. But when she discovers two men attempting to steal her job out from under her? Everything changes.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 28
Kudos: 39





	1. Thank God It's Fri-Yay

> Routine is something that occurs so easily it would be impossible to conduct meaningful studies on the subject. The scientists would fall into their own patterns of routine while researching. A particular coffee drunk on certain mornings, a favorite seat on the evening bus or even a preferred font the research. Even the one team member resisting any sort of routine would become predictable in their attempts to be unexpected.
> 
> But this is not a story about scientists studying human nature.
> 
> This is a story about Y/N Y/L/N.
> 
> In the deepest recesses of her mind, Y/N dared to think she was unpredictable—from her mismatched socks to her affinity for spicy foods—and thus not subject to the weaknesses of mundane routine. Of course, she was wrong.
> 
> Every morning she woke up at the same time to the same incessant beeping of her alarm clock. A sound that once silenced she replaced with a sigh because her day began with not wanting to get out of bed. Where others might have drunk coffee she made herself green tea, which she sipped while listening to the news for exactly ten minutes. Enough time to catch the highlights in case some catastrophe was happening in the world, but not so long that she would get distracted.
> 
> Each night Y/N would drive home the same route and park on the driveway of her slightly too-large house. On Thursday’s her ageing neighbour would be watering his rose bushes and she’d wave, as good neighbours do.
> 
> That is, she followed this routine without question, until the last Friday in May.
> 
> There was nothing immediately extraordinary about this day as it started. As usual, she tapped a wordless tune while waiting for her kettle to sing—since she had not heard the idiom about watched pots and their tendency not to boil. Once the steam had finished rising she poured the hot water over the tea and watched the paper bag contort under the pressure of the liquid. Others might walk away and leave their drink to brew without care but not Y/N. She watched the water deepen to a soft green because the perfect tea had a perfect hue. Only by watching it with a keen eye could she properly measure the removal of the bag, once it looked like something akin to the grass in spring.
> 
> Again, how she made her tea was not out of the ordinary. Neither was the way she would sit with her mug in one hand and her phone in the other. Focusing half her attention on the news, half on her emails, and leaving no capacity left to appreciate the drink she had so carefully slaved over. After all her tea was it’s usual perfection and did not need much thought. These things were-

“Hello?”

Your thumb hovers over an email that assured you that you had, in fact, won a free iPhone. At the moment you were about to swipe and delete the spam cluttering your inbox you’d heard it. A voice. A woman. She’d been talking about... no. It was your imagination.

> These things were puzzle pieces, a mess that Y/N would have to-

“Who’s there?”

Your eyes dart around looking for an intruder without moving your head. You’re not supposed to move your head if there’s someone trying to murder you, probably, that might tip them off that you know they’re there. But no one is there. No shadowy figures in the corner of the room and no burglars in striped shirts carrying burlap sacks. Your question falls on deaf ears. It bounces around your empty living room destined to go unanswered. Except there should be someone, right? As your thumb had moved the voice continued. But from where? From who?

This time you move your thumb slower, agile and waiting. As you do it happens again and you’re determined to find them this time.

> These things were puzzle pieces, a mess that Y/N would have to organise before she could see the bigger picture. Except they did not feel like a mess to her, they felt like any other motion on any other day. She continued to wonder if she should buy some bread on the way home and the world continued to turn, unaware of the significance of this particular Friday.

You drop the phone from your hand as if it has given you an electric shock. Your mind flashes to standing in your kitchen minutes ago, craving toast but not having the necessary ingredients. The mental note you’d made was completely internal. You’d thought about getting bread knowing you would definitely forget.

There’s a beat. An actual pause in time where even your heart stops as you’re caught staring at the phone on the sofa cushion next to you.

You pick it up again and turn the device over in your hands. Maybe the sound came from the phone, although that seems impossible. How would your phone know you are out of bread when that’s not something you’ve said out loud? Everyone is so sure that Facebook listens to us all but it seemed unlikely they had jumped to mind reading so soon.

The screen of your phone darkens in warning that it will go to sleep and tapping it reveals the time. You've now sat there, speaking to no-one, longer than you normally would. Now everything else will be rushed. You choke a mouthful of tea and it’s somehow still too hot, so you decide against finishing the cup. Instead, you leap up and continue getting ready, happy to hear, well, nothing. No voice following you, revealing the contents of your kitchen cupboards, or anything else.

And then you finally rush out of your house to your waiting car.

> The engine of Y/N’s car made an almost worrying clunking sound as she turned the key in the ignition, a sound that-

Your hand pulls away from the key in an instant as if it’s the key’s fault that the voice has returned. It’s either upset or fear on your face as you look around the inside of your trusty vehicle that’s always got you from A-Z, but now might have betrayed you.

“And it’s eight twenty-five folks, we’ll have traffic coming up in five but before that…”

“Shit.” You respond to the radio, or more specifically the time, realising that you’re now, still, running late.

> The engine of Y/N’s car made an almost worrying clunking sound as she turned the key in the ignition. A sound that she would have been worried about were it the first time she’d heard it. The truth was she had been abhorrently ignoring the noise for many months now. By now it was as familiar as the rest of her morning and only solidified that today was so very achingly normal. Today was not the first, nor the last day that she would be running late for work yet it was the most important. Not that Y/N knew.

It’s a struggle to ignore the voice and keep driving. Your foot almost stumbles over the gas a few times and there’s one stop sign that you barely stop for. To be fair it’s not the first time you’ve almost missed this particular stop sign. Although when you start hearing a voice talking about your day, you can pretty much blame everything that goes wrong on that.

The thing you work out quickly, worryingly, is that this voice comes and goes. When she, whoever it is, finishes her little tribute to your crappy car there’s silence. You almost feel sane again. And so you let yourself fall right back into that false sense of security that it was some fluke of your imagination. You finish the journey and make it with five minutes to spare because you always drive a little faster than you should. Even if today you’re running from something unexplainable, you still find your shoulders relaxing as you step out of the car. Regardless of everything you’re on time for work.

> Y/N breathed a sigh of relief as her work heels clacked against the tarmac of the underground parking garage. Against all the setbacks and stops signs that had tried to thwart her best-laid plans, she had made it. To Y/N this was the most extraordinary thing about her day. She was certain her journey time would set such a high standard that everything could only go downhill from here.

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

> When in fact today would be a day that she would never forget. Today would thrust her into a life so exempt from ten-minute mugs of tea and almost tardiness, that she would look back upon days like this with a skewed sense of nostalgia. Today Y/N pressed the button for the elevator like she had a thousand times before. Whereas tomorrow would be entirely different.

“Obviously,” you huff an annoyed breath, “tomorrow’s Saturday.”

The woman was beginning to annoy you. Both her failure to get to the point and the fact that most of what she was saying was stating the obvious. The frustration bubbling inside your belly gets translated into pressing the button for the elevator more times than you need to, until the doors finally open in front of you.

The harsh fluorescent light of the elevator makes no one look good so you're not worried when you see tired lines on your face in the large mirror. It had been a long week and now to top things off you were going crazy, the things take their toll. At least in eight short hours, you’d be free for the weekend.

“Morning Y/N!” Instead of coming from where you would expect, the chipper voice was about three feet too low and completely out of sight.

“Laura?”

She pops up violently from underneath her desk holding a single post-it note flapping in her hand, “found it!”

“I’m proud of you?” you question, cocking your head to the side and wondering how much coffee she's drunk already.

> Y/N was far too distracted to tease her coworker about her overly sunny disposition, as she usually would first thing in the morning. Once again she found her harmless routine interrupted by what she thought to be a series of meaningless accidents. When her preoccupation was down to the larger, irrefutable hands of fate.

“It’s not fate distracting me, it's you!” you whisper with the severity of a shout. By now it was easy to figure out that whoever or whatever the voice was couldn’t hear you. That didn’t stop you voicing your frustration at the new personality stalking you.

“Y/N honey, you ok?”

You look up at Laura to find a mixture of confusion and concern, only to remember that she is there at all.

“Laura! Did you hear that?” The excitement in your voice teeters on paranoia. Maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe you weren’t alone in this.

“Did I hear what?”

“That voice,” you gesture with your hands upwards figuring that it was coming from up high. Despite being on the top floor of the building. “The one drivelling on about fate and-and the fact that I need to buy bread!”

Your chest is heaving underneath your white shirt but only enough that someone close to you, like Laura, might notice your distress.

“Erm. Are you feeling ok?”

Her tone, along with the way she leans over her desk to whisper the question, is enough to snap you out of it. You’re being insane, out loud. It’s one thing to think you’re going crazy but another thing entirely to let other people know that you are.

“Yeah sorry, I erm… I watched a weird film last night.”

Laura laughs at that explanation, somewhat nervously but still, she laughs. She takes the opportunity for an explanation that doesn’t end up with you in a straight jacket. Did they even put people in straight jackets anymore?

“See you at lunch?” She asks the same as ever, ignoring whatever is wrong with you like any workplace friend would.

“Yeah, sure.” The smile on your face is thin while you wave a hand aimlessly to agree to lunch. You start walking to your desk in the quieter corner of the office before she gets truly suspicious.

> Colleagues waved and greeted her as she walked through the stuffy yet open plan room. The usual sea of politeness was only personalised with her name here and there. Most of them hardly glanced away from their screens as they spoke to her. So wrapped up in their work that they merely greeted whatever figure it was that moved past them. Y/N was one of these mindless zombies on occasion. Throwing herself into work so deeply that she too would forget common courtesies such as eye contact.

“This isn’t happening,” you mutter when you finally slink into your chair.

> It was then, on this Friday, this cloudy and uncertain day, that reprieve came to Y/N in the form of work. A Manila folder floating through the office as if on a cloud. A file atop a pile of files, each as indistinctive as the last. And yet, the file destined for Y/N’s desk would prove to hold the most important paperwork she would ever read. Each distinctive typed letter on each fresh white sheet would be more important than the last. And even Y/N, who had no idea of the significance of what she was about to receive…

“Well, kind of do now.” You grumble watching Hillary wander through the office with a stack of assignments. She arrives at your desk wearing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and hands you the topmost one.

> …would feel goosebumps prickle her skin as she receives the folder. Almost as if somehow she could perceive the importance of this assignment, without ever having opened it. Little did she know that this seemingly innocuous file would set about her new life, as well as her imminent death.

“Wait. My what?”


	2. Bad Boys, Bad Boys, Whatcha Gonna Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? 
> 
> (It's time to meet the boys, although breifly)

“My imminent…?” You're stuck at your desk whispering to yourself.  Every inch of you frozen in place so completely that you can’t do anything except stare at the cream folder in your hands like it might be a bomb. As if the last five seconds have started ticking away and you have to choose which wire to cut.

It must have been a mistake. There was no way you were going to… die. Soon anyway. You couldn’t be… how could a folder kill you? Forget about the voice in your head that knew your secrets, how could this card and paper in your hands kill you?

This whole thing. This day. It must be a fever dream or a very vivid daydream. Of course, the voice knew your secrets because it was all a figment of your own imagination.

Imagination or not suddenly you were hoping to hear anything, answers to any of the questions buzzing about your head. It would be so much easier if you could hear the answers. The voice, that stupid godforsaken voice, it had done this to you, so it could fix it. But now that your fate had apparently been sealed everything was achingly silent.

“Answer me.” You finally move, leaning into the folder with a stern command but your voice cracks before you start.

Silence, except the normal office din. Phones ringing and fingers tapping away on keyboards but the voice stayed quiet.

You drop the file on your desk, not out of choice but because your hands start shaking if you get close to opening it. Though you are loath to admit it, the voice was right. Something about today and this file, in particular, feels different. Could different be enough to make everything true? If it's true can you stop it? You don’t know the impossible danger you’re trying to avoid.  Although yesterday you'd have said a voice in your head was impossible, let alone dying tomorrow.

You wouldn’t open it then. How could something hurt you if you didn’t engage? You could put the folder in the back of a filing cabinet somewhere and never look at it again. Or you could shred the thing. Coerce Laura into shredding it for you? You could convince her she’s not doing anything wrong.  This could be one case that got lost in processing—the client will get paid out because the company failed to investigate and you’ll go on breathing. Everyone’s a winner.

“Oh good, you got twenty-four zero one.” Your manager appears, hovering over you, coffee in one hand as he reads out the files’ label number.

“What?”

He takes an exaggerated sip, like a bad Folgers commercial, before explaining himself. “I thought you could use a little treat is all.”

“Treat? A treat?” You splutter; exasperated and unbelieving. The file might be your end and he thought this was a treat? “I’m sorry, why is this a treat?” Your office was not normally a place for dramatics. You yourself were not normally one for dramatics.  It was only of the many reasons your boss liked you so today he ignores your sarcastic, borderline angry tone. He doesn’t make assumptions about your attitude, he simply chooses not to hear your tone at all.

He winks, “it’s right up your street.”

You almost dry heave,  barely choking it back. “I’ve got to go.”

“What?” He parrots, glancing at the clock on the wall reading 9:15 before turning back to you, your laptop not even switched on for the day.

“I’m sorry Mark,  really  I am.” You hastily stuff your laptop into your bag. Followed by your phone.  Pausing only a second after throwing the bag on your shoulder to decide if you should take the case file, before finally hugging it to your chest. Losing the file would be worse than taking it with you. “I’m feeling under the weather. I-I thought I would be ok but  I think  I should have stayed home this morning.”

There’s an air of patronizing manly-ness in the way he looks at you, “o-oh well. I appreciate you trying to make the effort.”

There’s no time to argue against Mark’s casual sexism, you have to get out of here,  quickly. “I’ll work from home for today. Sorry, again.”

He doesn't get a chance to say anything as you make your way erratically to the exit. Some desks you clip the corners of as you swerve to avoid people, plants, even the printer finds itself in your way.

Laura gets out a questioning, “Y/N?” before you’re back in the elevator you’d only recently vacated. The doors close behind you while you try to calm your racing heartbeat.

No getting rid of the evidence then. Mark knows you have the file now. Even if you hadn’t taken it with you he’d seen it at your desk, in your hands, he chose to give this to you.  Obviously  Mark has no idea he’s signed your death warrant with whatever was inside. It’s not even the first time he’s given you that dumb wink and treated you to cases he thought you’d enjoy. Like the time he had you go investigate the fire at that bakery because, quote, ‘you love pastries’.

The drive home is as silent as the rest of your life had been yesterday. You turn off the radio in case the voice cames back with more information but it doesn't. Which means the soundtrack to your journey is the clunky engine sound, again.  You absolutely needed to take your car to the garage, but who has the time with _imminent_ death hanging over their head?

It’s 9:45 when you scuttle back into your house, bag in hand, and still clinging to the file like hiding it in your chest will make it disappear. You’ve only been out of the house for an hour but there’s something eerie about being back so soon. It’s almost like you’re interrupting your house’s private time. You’re not supposed to be here now and the dust bunnies hanging in the air seem disturbed by your presence.

There’s no time to dwell on the eerie presence of your usually comforting home. You put everything on your table and look around. Half hoping some insane stalker comes out of the woodwork with the exact voice you’ve been hearing. Unfortunately, that’s too easy.

Then you go back to the sofa. Yes, that’s where it had started. Your half-drunk tea is still on the coffee table where you’d been rushing to get to work. Instead of taking the mug into the kitchen you fall into the seat and pick up the cold cup. You have no intention of drinking it but you’re hoping for a miracle. If you do the mundane things she had taken so much pleasure in narrating earlier then can you force her to come back?

Although you sit there for a few minutes it’s painfully obvious after a few seconds that nothing is going to happen.

And then you remember the folder. The new bane of your existence. What if the only way out of this is to keep going? One step forwards, two steps back.

Maybe you have to open the folder that your narrator—there isn’t another name for them at this point—seemed so interested in earlier.  Maybe rushing out of the office hadn’t been what she wanted, so she had nothing to say.

You were going to open it eventually anyway. It’s your job and you couldn’t live with not knowing.

There's a glimpse of Manilla on the table in front of you, trapped under your purse. The voice had called it innocuous earlier and the description is apt. It is the next folder of thousands that you will ever hold. Unless, of course, it’s your last. If it’s your last then that explains why this one feels heavier than it looks as you slide it free.

Once it’s in your lap you frown at it. Mentally preparing yourself. For the voice or the contents, it doesn’t matter, either way, you try your best to steady your breathing.  Despite your reverence, as you flip the cover open, the first page is exactly what you expect to find: a summary of the claim, dollar amounts, and beneficiary details. And your head still stays silent.

You could get angry. You could shout and plead to whatever cruel twist of fate decided today was the day that you'd go insane. Anger won't change anything though. Screaming won't get your answers. But, your work is something you know how to do. It's always been a safety net, if not a little dull.

Yes, you could get angry, but there’s a file in your lap that needs investigation. The same as all the other claims you've ever closed.  And now that you’re in this ridiculous situation, caught between crazy and scared, you only had two options.  The first was to ignore the situation—return to bed with that half bottle of wine in your fridge and wait for something to break down your door and kill you. The second was to continue to do your job and ignore that everything in your life is absurd right now.

Those two options aren't options at all because you're not quite ready to start drinking before noon. Which leaves carrying on with your life. Mark was right about one thing anyway, it is right up your street. Well, a couple of streets over anyway.

* * *

You knock on the door and wait. The red paint is curling and peeling at the edges. The ‘5’ in ‘75’ is slightly askew, but nothing else is out of place. Even those small things you only notice because you’re waiting on the doorstep staring at them.  There’s sound inside the house, like muffled voices and then footsteps before the door bursts open.

“Hello?”  The woman seems agitated already, which usually doesn’t happen until after you introduce yourself.

“Hello. My name is Y/N Y/L/N and I’m here on behalf of First National insurance. Are you Margret Hall?”

“Call me Maggie. Yes but…”

“I understand that you recently filed a claim with us for….”

“For my dead husband, yes, but what about the two guys who are already here?”

You can’t help your flinch at ‘dead husband’.  In life insurance cases you always try to use tactful language even if it's the spouses or family who cut to the chase. Still, that’s not the part of what she said that’s worrying.

“Excuse me? There’s somebody already here?” Hope surges through you at the prospect of being mistaken. You have the wrong case, the wrong file, you’re not going to die. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“Yeah, I have two guys here now.”

Two guys? The company never sends two men to do one woman’s job. Especially not on a run of the mill claim like this. You slump your shoulders a little, deflated. It's your own fault for hoping.

“They’re still here?”

The woman grimaces in a way that tells you she wants to roll her eyes but she’s resisting. Instead, she purses her lips before she looks back into her home to confirm. Her answer is dripping with sarcasm, “still at the table where I left them.”

You’ve had worse from a widow—you’ve had screeching and accusations—and you let all that go because it’s a difficult time. So, when Maggie Hall twists her face and offers you her bored cynicism it's easy to not see it. You are more focused on the suspicious situation instead.

“Can I meet them?” You lower your voice because you don’t know how close they are to where you’re standing. “I, eh,  just  want to make sure they have all the correct information if they’re taking over.”

That's a lie. You don’t want to scare the poor woman by telling her she has a couple of strangers in her house but she definitely has. The claim file is reassuringly tucked under your arm. It is your proof, it’s your shield against their criminal behavior, their lies.

You’re so distracted by the drama of the situation that you seem to have forgotten,  momentarily, that you’d be more than happy to be wrong  . Overjoyed even. You’d quite like Harry and David from the office to be sitting there with an identical file offering you an escape. Yet you know they won’t be, because this has never happened before. There’s never a duplicate file. There’s never more than one adjuster accidentally sent. Until the voice in your head offers more information there’s no getting out of this.

Then you allow yourself to be distracted. You treat the situation seriously because it is serious.  While you can’t imagine why anyone would want to pretend to be an insurance adjuster, for some reason these two men are  . The best you can hope for is that the strangers are as dull and harmless as the men who genuinely  work in your office.

Maggie, who is only a decade older than you to have lost her husband, steps back and finally ushers you inside with a tight-lipped smile .

Two men are sitting at her round kitchen table with their backs to you as she shows you in. They’re whispering and leaning into each other for their secret conversation.  If you didn’t know any better you’d swear you hear the words ‘silver knife’, which only perpetuates the criminal label you’ve already assigned them .

“Hello.”

They both turn their heads to look at you, startled by a new voice. Then they stand up in unison causing their chairs to scrap against the kitchen floor. They are definitely not the soft, unassuming men that you hoped to find.

You want to stand your ground and keep your body language confident but your hand still creeps into your purse as you puff out your chest  . Fingers searching blindly  for your phone while you speak. “I’m from First National insurance. I’m here to investigate Mrs. Hall's claim but she said someone was already here.”

They have excellent poker faces, you’ll give them that at least.  If you had to read anything it’d be a small hint of panic from the taller one and a flash of anger from the shorter one, like an animal backed into a corner  .  But their reactions are instantly hidden under steeled expressions so you can’t be sure if your elevated heart rate is making you see things  . It dawns on you then how stupid a plan it was to try and seem imposing to these two behemoth men who fill up the entire room. Would you even be able to dial 911 without taking your phone out? There’s a pause before the taller guy runs his hand through his hair  nervously , “that’s a crazy mix up, huh?”

His attempt at friendly casualness bolsters the last shred of confidence you are clinging to  . He’s nervous because he knows he’s been caught, which means that you are _right_.

“It would be if I had ever seen you two around the office.” You narrow your eyes at them and open your mouth, ready to unmask them for the imposters they are.

Mrs. Hall chooses this moment to decide that three uninvited insurance adjusters are two too many .

“Can someone explain what the hell is going on?”

Tall guy is quick on the draw and jumps on the opportunity to run. “I’m very sorry Mrs. Hall it looks like there was a mix up at the office. We’re going to head back now and straighten this out but we’ll leave you in the capable hands of… um… our colleague here.”

They’re already walking. Taking big strides with their long legs and your widow is glad to guide them out. Your fingers finally wrap around your phone  securely  and you protest as best you can. “You don’t even know my name. Why were you…?”

> A deep and unsettling emotion brewed within Y/N as she watched them leave, one she didn’t ever remember feeling ever before. She might not have a name for it but knew that this was one of those important moments. The ones that stories are written for, that songs are created about, the kind of moment that changes a life.

“Oh for the love of God, not now.”

> She was, of course,  absolutely right. Her life had changed as soon as she’d opened her eyes that morning. Knocking on this particular door was not a choice made for her by her boss or even herself, it was destiny. She could never go back to a time before she crossed this threshold and in time she wouldn’t want to.  Although at this moment—trying to stop these strangers from leaving like she’s a detective in one of her mystery novels—she doesn’t realize what’s happening. All Y/N knows is that feeling in her stomach. The glaring klaxon sound echoing in her head. The icy determination that has locked her chin into an unwavering line. All Y/N knows is that these men broke the rules that dictate her life.  If they could so effortlessly disrespect her tenuous sense of self, then there was no limit to the heinous crimes these madmen might commit. She had to stop them.

You’re only dazed for a second by the implication that you might, at some point, not regret any of this, or them. It's enough time for them both to make it to the door. The taller one is quick to open it, ready to make his escape. “Wait! What were you doing here?”

It’s the shorter one, although shorter is all relative when he still towers over you, who spares you a frustrated glance before he leaves. “Above your pay grade, sweetheart.”

And then the door closes. Maggie finally rolls her eyes as if she’s been waiting a lifetime to do it, except the action is not at you, it’s with you. Their rude and haste exit has catapulted her  firmly  onto your team.

> The door tried it's very best to separate her from the strangers she’d just met. It stood as opaquely as it could in the hopes that, without the visual aid, she might forget they had existed.  It tried, oh, how the door tried to divert her attention from the unknown men who could be terrible, rule-breaking influences on her.  However the door was only wood and she was a stubborn woman made of free will and limbs—a woman who refused to be deceived.

Your hand is on the doorknob before the mention of your limbs has finished rattling around your head.  Realistically you don’t want to encourage the voice by doing what it says. After all, the voice's ultimate goal seems to be killing you. It’s just  your need to open the door goes deeper than your fear of the voice. The voice isn’t proven yet. It could still be a psychosis or a brain tumor. Those men are concrete. Real dangers that you can chase down and confront. Or at the very least you can see what direction they head off into. That would be good information for the police.

The doors of a black muscle car slam at the same moment that you step outside again, phone in hand. The engine revs loud enough to alert the entire neighborhood of their exit. The police will never get here on time so you do the next best thing. You snap a picture of their big, noisy car and make a mental note of the license plate in case the picture’s blurred.

> Watching the unknown car hurtle into the dusky, afternoon daylight felt like an ending. The proverbial full stop in a sentence she hadn't been finished with. Were it any other day, any other encounter, then Y/N might be right about this ending.  Perhaps this might have been an intriguing story to recount to her coworkers in the office. A fable to paint herself as the insurance adjusting sheriff around these parts. She scared off the bad guys.  However, this was not any other day and those were not any other bad guys. In fact, one of them would change her life.

It was hard enough typing the license plate into your notes app while the voice distracted you.  Impossibly  you manage to note down the Ohio plate to go with your hasty picture.

Googling that would be something for later, for now, you had a whole other job to do. Something simple and easy. Something you knew how to do in your sleep.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hall, I mean Maggie, let’s get these questions answered so First National can stop sending people around . Huh?”


	3. Reading is Fundamental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you type a fictional license plate into google?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of a means to an end but the next chapter is going up tomorrow and it's a doozy.

It’s _almost_ funny how dramatic the voice in your head wants to be about those suited criminals and yet it doesn’t care to elaborate on anything important. Like, say, your imminent death. The mention of it was so casual, calm, but a couple of weirdos want to pretend to be insurance adjusters and suddenly it’s all pretty prose and run-on sentences. Flowery language about broad-shouldered men in roaring muscle cars that are going to change your life. She’d kept going while you’d interviewed Maggie Hall. She’d harped on and on about how you couldn’t stop thinking about them. 

Of course, you couldn’t stop thinking about them, _she_ wouldn’t shut up about them. 

After an entire monologue about the way the paper felt in your hands and could never be replaced by computers—purists are the worst—you finally get to leave. That's when you get some respite. You’re walking out into the late afternoon sun and thanking Maggie for her time and it's bliss. Maggie's story sounds a little off, after years doing this you have this gut instinct for when you should investigate further. Funnily enough, you have drama in your life that you’ll submit a valid claim anyway. Just so you can get this cursed case out of your hair. You might even hurry it through the system before the thing has the chance to kill you. 

You’re still not sure how a case could kill you. You’re a pencil pusher at best and the interview with Maggie is an excellent example of the majority of your fieldwork, obviously excluding the criminals at the start. Unless your demise is death by papercut.

For now, you’ve given up trying to fathom out the voice you’re hearing, especially since she's chosen to once again go radio silent. If she won’t say anything useful, like say how not to die, then you were going to have to figure out how to skip ahead on your own. Since she kept talking about the imposters you’d met that day, they seemed to be an excellent place to start. 

CNK 80Q3. Ohio plates. That's as much as you know without google.

That evening you set yourself up in the same way you would to work from home. There's a desk in the corner of your dining room with a chair that offers enough lumbar support for the longest of research sessions. Although it’s your personal laptop and there’s not normally a large glass of wine sitting next to you when work. 

After it powers on you’re assaulted by the usual pop-ups; windows you forgot to close last time and your emails. Procrastinating is not a new routine, and you’re on a mission, so they all get minimized instead of closed completely. Then you open a new browser window and a stark google homepage stares back at you. A hopeful new beginning. 

CNK 80Q3. You’re genuinely surprised that _she_ hasn’t started talking again to describe the change in the air as you type in the plate number. Or some drivel about the way your fingers emphasize each letter and number. It’s all there happening anyway, making the moment foreboding, but your narrator doesn’t seem care. 

The first row of results are images. Weirdly its images of the license plate itself. That doesn't strike you as odd at first glance and then you think about it a little more. Why are there so many pictures of this particular license plate? Who is running around taking these pictures? You're pretty sure if you typed in your own plate number there would be no pictures of it. And then you see some shopping results where you can actually buy the plate. While the online shops might explain the images, it only really poses more questions. Why are so many people buying that license plate? What’s so special about it? 

You take a sip of your wine before you scroll further, savoring the taste as well as the way it relaxes your shoulders. You don't own any 'fun' novelty coasters that say it but you're inclined to agree with the statement you've heard before. Wine really does make everything better. 

You’re not yet into the murky depths of page 2 but you’re far enough down the page now to make it past the sponsored results. These links come thick and fast from websites that all seem to have one word in common. Supernatural. 

Then you see your salvation. A page called Supernaturalwiki—the link is simply titled: **Impala** —and you stop scrolling, a grateful sound slipping past your lips as you do. Wiki, you know that word. Like Wikipedia. Wikipedia has references and moderators', clear and concise explanations. This was the easy way out you were looking for.

That’s what you hope as you click on the link anyway. Your naivety lasts all of twenty seconds before the page loads. With its stock image of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, and a quote about it being the most important object in the universe.

Or it's the most important object in some books at least.

Further clicking and longer sips of wine reveal it’s a series of books called Supernatural—with the title of the wiki you should have seen that coming. These were story after story of ghosts and demons and angels? There are pages that describe monsters, urban legends, and two men. Sam and Dean Winchester. They each have dedicated pages with their whole lives mapped out.

Sam and Dean are fictional brothers and apparently the heroes. Each of their respective profiles begins with an illustrated image from book covers, and then a series of quotes that contradict those pictures. Then their lives are intricately detailed, or should you say they are chronologically recorded according to each book. You would read their histories in full if it wasn't for how tiny the scroll bar is, indicating that these profile pages are ridiculously long. 

You sit back in your chair and take a deep breath in the hopes of it being soothing. Or answering all your questions. It does neither. You have no answers and more stress. 

This went beyond two men pretending to do your job now. Those guys were driving around in a car with fictional license plates. What was this? Some weirdly immersive cosplay? Was that something Sam and Dean did in the books? 

Even so, those two guys weren’t roleplaying at comic con, they were actually in that woman's home. If you hadn't arrived they could have done anything. They could be doing anything now. 

There's a ding from the kitchen which means the frozen meal you’d thrown in the oven is ready. Not that you stop thinking about this while you go and grab it because the more you think the less sense everything makes. Like why is a narrator who, until now, was obsessed with those guys, so very silent all of a sudden? 

Back at your desk with hot food, you head back to google to see if you can buy these books anywhere because knowledge is power. Unfortunately, not even Amazon has copies. It’s only when you add the term “ebook” to your search do you find a Tumblr blog with links to download all the files, split into two categories. Published and unpublished. There are a lot of Supernatural books and from the looks of it there’s an equal amount of drama over how the unpublished ones got out. 

You start downloading them without consciously making a decision to read them. Downloading kind of happens because your macaroni cheese is too hot for your mouth to handle yet, and your hands still need something to do. Besides you didn’t necessarily need to read all of them, if they were truly terrible you’d delete the files. No harm, no foul. But if this was the only way to get answers then you and your kindle were going to be pretty busy this weekend. 

* * *

“Morning Laura.” Nobody likes Mondays, yet you have a little bounce in your step having made your usual green tea, got dressed, and driven to work in complete and utter silence. In fact, you’d heard nothing all weekend. The caveat was that, yes, you’d spent all weekend reading _those_ books. 

You liked reading and without discrimination. Trashy romance novels at the airport? You betcha. Fantasy books thicker than your mattress? Sure thing, order a pizza. But a mystery? Well, those were your favorite. Of course, the detective needed some sort of sketchy backstory and there had to be a fishy amount of red herrings. Most importantly there had to be something to solve. It was an elevation of your day to day life and you always get sucked in. In your job, you try to solve the most benign mysteries; people faking insurance claims. More often than not there isn’t even a mystery to solve, someone really did slip and break something. So, a mystery that grabs you out of nowhere is like a promotion for you, a challenge. 

That had been how those Supernatural books had dragged you in. Ghosts and ghouls you could take or leave, you might have stopped reading if that’s all there was. Then this Carver Edlund went and put in that damn side plot about their missing father. It was too enticing, addicting. From the cryptic disappearance to the indecipherable journal of clues. John Winchester would be the death of you.

Or case 24-01 would be. The jury was still out on that. 

And now it’s Monday. You’ve heard nothing more from the voice in your head—it may have been a low-level case of carbon monoxide poisoning—and the boys are so close to figuring everything out you can taste it. Technically they know John is alive by now, you finished **Shadow** some point yesterday afternoon and felt yourself choke up at the emotional goodbye with a father they just got back. But they still have no clue what he's up to, which is a hideous funhouse mirror reflection of your own life. Hopefully, by the time they figure out John’s game plan, you'll have your life figured out too. And fingers crossed figuring everything out will involve staying alive as well.

“You look like you’re feeling better this morning.” Laura is her perky self, always a little too happy for this side of 9am. 

Oh right, you went home sick on Friday. You should remember things like that. “I think it was a bug or something I ate maybe.”

“Sure, sure. One of those convenient Friday bugs.” She winks at you.

If she accused you of that say, last week, you’d have laughed it off given that's a thing everyone has in common; trying to skip out on work. So, that's what you try to do this side of the weekend. You push out something that hopefully resembles a regular person's laugh like you’re in on the joke. The only reason you have to fake it because you’re still thinking about **Providence**. The book you’d finished that morning instead of watching the news. You’re still wondering if Sam is starting to move on after Jessica. 

Needless to say, you understand now. The many fan blogs and the artwork you’d glanced at before you started reading. All those things that you’d disregarded as an unhealthy fascination for a bunch of books. Now you’re one of them, obsessed. Walking into the office with your kindle tucked in your bag and **Salvation** just begging to be read.

This goes beyond finding John. That plot got its hooks in you but you’ve known John was alive since **Home** and you’re still reading. You could also blame this on your general love of reading except it goes beyond that too. Honestly, it’s hard to pick one thing. They’re really great books. Sam and Dean have such turbulent lives but they still have each other. They’re snarky, lost, angry, and caring. They’re both so different but the sibling relationship is so real. And the stories go beyond a new monster every book, there are these huge interesting story arcs that you couldn't stop reading if you tried. John Winchester had been the first example of these addictive plot points, but not the only one. 

“Y/N?” 

You snap your head up, “sorry, sorry.” 

“I was only saying you’re going to be here all day then, lunch?”

Even though Laura must see the decision on your face she still pretends to hope until you start speaking. “Actually I have a lot to catch up on so I’ll probably be working through. Tomorrow?” 

She smiles brightly and nods, “sure thing.” 

As bad as you feel about lying to Laura she has presented you an opportunity. Everyone thinks you were sick on Friday. They even think you're behind on your work and they don’t know you’ve already conducted the initial interview. Which makes your decision to sit at your desk and prop your kindle up next to your screen even easier. Nobody would notice the difference between you concentrating or reading. If you skip lunch you might be able to get to **Bloodlust** out of the way too. 


	4. Office Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone works late sometimes and usually, it's pretty quiet when you do.

> Y/N would say that one of the perks of her job was getting out of the office from time to time. Sometimes a case required anything from a simple home interview to speaking to several family members over a number of days. She relished in the peace working away from inboxes and water cooler talk however, every once in a while she could find the same serenity in the uniform walls of her employment building. Today was one of those very days. Today she sat at her desk, alone, long past her colleagues' departure at five pm. The overhead lights were off and Y/N, whose fingers sped over the keyboard urgently, was lit only by the cool glow of her screen. 

“It’s not super peaceful when you won’t shut up.” As much as you fought becoming complacent to the voice in all honesty you were glad to have her back in some small way. You hadn’t heard her for days now, not since you started reading Supernatural. It’s only now that you’d finished, she was back to her usual tricks. Some ridiculous ten-minute lecture about you waking up late for work was your reunion this morning. While it was true that you were very late for work today—two hours to be precise—she didn’t once mention that it was because of your late-night finishing off **Swan Song**. 

That wasn’t too concerning. The voice ignoring your reading habits was minor in comparison to her being back at all. Her return meant your aneurysm hadn't been temporary and you were closer to one of two things. Solving the mystery of why Maggie Hall’s file was so important or dying.

Obviously, option number one was preferable.

After an entire day of her, you have fallen completely into accepting that she's not going away anytime soon. For the most part, you have let her harp on like she’s looking for a book deal but now that you’re alone and trying to concentrate, you find yourself responding to her. For your own satisfaction of answering back.

> She was feeling productive. Each word she wrote punctuated by the precise click of her fingers on the keyboard. A familiar sense of achievement swelled within her chest as she began to summarise her decision on the claim. Summaries are nothing more than detailed endings, which is why Y/N was particularly excited to be writing this one. More so than any other claim she had finished up before.
> 
> An ending was exactly what she was hoping for. The unusual situations she had found herself in over the last few days were too messy for even her to organize. Tangled up like a ball of string after being batted around by a cat. Logically then she was focusing on the only thing that made sense, tie up one loose end and the others would right themselves. Finish this piece of work and maybe she'd live.
> 
> How unfortunate then for Y/N that the universe did not look kindly upon her attempts to be orderly. How utterly unlucky that she had not guessed any of the answers correctly. Today was not fated to hold any happy endings for her. Not the closing of file twenty-four zero one, nor the reasonable explanations she had been searching for. 

Your fingers stutter to a stop. What the hell does she mean you weren’t closing this claim? You are ten minutes of proofreading away from pressing submit, you had stayed late to finish. At this point, it would take an act of God himself to stop you. 

That’s when you see a flash of light coming from reception. Flash is vague. A beam of light might be a better description, as in, the kind of beam emitted by a flashlight. Wait, there are two flashlights now. Oh shit. 

Suddenly you taste bile in your throat and your hands are clammy enough to be sticky. The voice said this case would kill you and now you’re sitting here working late, and she’s saying you weren’t going to close it and… and… is it going to happen now? You’d assumed it was something _in_ the file that killed you but you’d also assumed you had more time. Really, truly, this could be it. Imminent death means about to happen, not will happen when it’s convenient for you. This is it, isn’t it? You’re about to be accidentally murdered in an office robbery because you stayed to work late. On _that_ particular file. 

> She was not prepared to die. Not while there still wasn’t a grey hair on her head or while she hadn’t been to the Grand Canyon. Y/N had no preparations for the end.

No. Not now. It couldn’t be. 

> She had no will, no funeral plans, and no video message to her family about a series of clues leading to a great treasure. And on Wednesday night, early June with spring barely making way for summer was the last possible moment she would ever expect to meet her maker.

You want to hide but it’s impossible. Hiding would require you to have some control over your body. An impossible feat, while you're listening with bated breath to what you assume, is your last paragraph. 

> Obviously, Y/N would not be dying tonight.

“Are you joking? How was that obvious?” You whisper into the dark, edging into frustration. Barely enjoying the relief of not dying when your narrator is toying with you. 

> She still had a new life to begin. One which began and ended with two men that had left as quickly as she'd met them. Fate has a perverted sense of humor and had chosen to push her forward into the unknown. This is why these important men were breaking into her office at precisely that moment.

The footsteps of the intruders get closer. You don’t have a direct view of reception but you’d seen the flashlights on account of it being dark in here. They sound like they're near reception, maybe twenty seconds from coming in. Once they’re in the main part of the office then all they’d have to do is turn a little to their left and they’d spot you. In the corner hanging out. 

But it's _the_ guys breaking in? The cosplayers. They’re the wannabe Winchester’s who have turned to robbery to get their kicks? 

You don’t know if it's actually them, not really. Not until they do take those last steps into the room but you hear them before you see them. 

“Remind me why you haven't done some nerd computer thing to get this?”

“I already tried, remember? Their system says it’s still in process so none of the details are on their servers yet. And since we need to find out where the money went…”

“... we need to get the physical file. Got it.” Mystery man number one sighs before he continues, “S'no fun killing a monster if you don’t have to work for it.” 

A monster? It’s _almost_ impressive how much these guys committed to whatever insane game they're playing. Almost being the keyword. These guys were genuinely crazy, and that was coming from someone with an unexplainable voice in her head. 

> Y/N finally overcame the initial wave of fear that had hit her when the flashlights had cut through the darkness. She reached up and shut off the monitor on her desk, the last thing that had been lighting her up like a Christmas tree. Her laptop was still running in its dock, she had no intention of losing all her work. She only wanted to lose herself, hide, snuffing out the screen, and rolling her chair backward seemed to do the trick. She felt safer already. Her heartbeat returning to something akin to its normal steady rhythm now that she was cloaked in darkness. As soon as they were distracted she might even be able to risk slinking to the floor and hiding below her desk. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take right now though, while they were still on high alert having just arrived.

You’re grateful that the voice is playing ball and giving you some useful information. It’s completely new, having so far only heard ominous foreshadowing and cryptic introductions, but it’s nice. Dare you say it, fun. For once in this whole ordeal, you actually feel like you’re in a story while you do exactly what she says. You sneak the smallest smile when you see their large shadows, finally step into the office. This might be where you have some luck on your side. 

“You check out the desks, I’ll go find the filing cabinets.” It’s pretty hard to make out with their backs to you but you’d wager it was the taller shadow that said that. 

The same bigger shadow starts walking towards the back of the office. He doesn’t know he’s heading towards the break room, although he probably thinks he has all night to figure it out. He can have all the time he wants as soon as you’re under your desk. Once you’re properly out of the way you look forward to not interrupting them as a stupid person might. You were perfectly ok with not being a hero.

> Of course, she was not accustomed to the cat and mouse game of breaking and entering. Y/N was not used to dark corners and darker rooms. And since she hadn’t used one since the last time her power went out, she seemed to have forgotten how flashlights worked as well.

“What?” you splutter. Faith in the voice shattered in an instant. 

In the next second, you’re blinded by a light in your eyes, you reach up to block it out but as you do his voice booms out. “Sam! We got company.” 

The tall guy comes running and now there are two lights in your face.

“Do you think we could not blind me?” They start lowering their flashlights when the other shoe drops, “wait, Sam? You-you’re using the names too?” It shouldn’t shock you, they’re driving the car and wearing the flannel clearly, they’re adopting the names too. But until now you’d been able to compartmentalize the books you’d read and the men that drove around in a car with the Winchesters fictional license plate. 

> Coming face to face with them she feels completely different now. The territory is hers; her office, her desk, her mug with her name on. The problem; this was not her game, it was theirs. Y/N was simnply working late whereas they were more adept at the after-hours version of this story. She might think they were delusional but this wasn’t the first crime she had them on the hook for. She could only imagine the hundreds, if not thousands, of other illegal activities they had gotten away with, all to play pretend.

“Nobody was supposed to be here.” The guy pretending to be Sam says to the guy who you can only imagine is pretending to be Dean.

“Well, there she is anyway.” Wannabe Dean huffs, both angry and disappointed at the same time. “But hey, maybe this can speed everything along, no more looking around in the dark at least.”

They’re both very good at talking about you while simultaneously ignoring you. Neither of them even flinch when you get up out of your chair and walk over to the light switch.

> The room flooded with light like any room would when a switch is flipped, however, this wasn’t any kitchen light switch. The office is a large space and the fluorescents required to illuminate it are industrial. It’s enough to pain anyone's eyes with how sharply their pupils contract. Unless you are the one pressing the switch in the first place. It was Y/N’s hand flipping the four switches required and so her eyes were closed in preparation. However the mystery men had been seconds from bickering so they jerk their heads as if trying to escape the inescapable, like it's the first time they've ever seen anything so bright. Y/N felt wholly better with the heat on her closed eyelids. Because she knew when she opened them the office would hers again, the control would be hers.

When you dare to look they both whip their heads to you, shocked that you’ve moved. You’ve managed to find an ounce of confidence in the light, or if you believe the voice in your head, a whole gallon. “I don’t know what game you’re playing pretending to be people, first at the house and now this. I didn’t tell anyone about this,” you motion a hand at where they're standing, “clearly that was my mistake. So, uh-just get out of here and I won’t say anything else about it.”

“Sweetheart, we ain’t playing games here and we ain’t leaving.” 

He steps towards you, a finger pointing to the floor to reiterate that he’s staying put. You wrongly assumed this would be as easy as it had been at Mrs. Halls when they'd run so quickly, forgetting that you'd had an audience there. 

“You are if you don’t want me to call down to security. I’m sure the cops would love a case like this—there’s an eyewitness!” 

> Y/N would never in a million years be able to describe where the sudden anger that consumed her had come from. She was hardly an agitated person. She could be sad or sarcastic, she’d been known to give a measured but scathing comeback and some would even call her curious. That’s not to say she’d never been angry, she had, but anger was never the first thing she chose to be, or feel. It was always such a demanding emotion. So, then this agitation was almost foreign to her and the way it forced her hand, more so. 

“Maybe we should…” Not Sam starts before he’s interrupted. 

“No Sam. We need that file if we’re going to stop this thing and right now this is our only option.” He points at you now signaling that you are the ‘this’ part of his sentence; their only option. 

> In another life, she might have rolled over rather than stare down the barrel of this argument. She might have seen the opportunity to get rid of them by giving them something small, like say confidential information, and done it without question. This was not her old life, nor the old Y/N. This was the new life she hadn’t realized was starting. The funny thing was she hadn’t needed to know. All she’d needed was this man in front of her to force her into a rage and as if by magic, she had begun to transform.

You push past fake Dean to make your way back to your desk, “that’s not happening. All client information is property of First National which means it isn’t mine to give. Not to mention the fact that you didn’t say please.”

> Her shoulder connects with his and it's the exact moment she realizes how close he was standing to her. He realizes the same. He’s close enough to grab her and spin her around but Y/N's body shudders tellingly with his fingers pressing into the flesh of her forearm.

“I don’t know what kind of power trip you think you're on but..." He grits through his teeth still holding you.

“Dean, can you calm down?” 

The breaking point of your anger turns into a sardonic laugh aimed at him. “You too?” You pull your arm away and get back to your chair. “I can’t get normal criminals breaking in while I’m working late. It has to be two weirdos running around pretending to be the Winchesters.”

It’s clear immediately that you’ve said something neither of them was expecting. You’re sitting at your desk waiting for one of them to stop you from picking up the phone, while they don’t seem to even notice your hand is on the receiver. 

“How do you know that? I mean, how do you know about us?” The tall guy that you refuse to call Sam, even in your head, asks. 

Two pairs of eyes bore into you waiting for an answer and for some reason your hand goes lax on the phone. “I ran your plate from outside Mrs. Halls because you don’t work with me. And I found these books but I mean, why are you even driving around with fake plates from some books anyway?”

It was a simple question that you were hoping had a simple answer, you know, fanboys or something. Instead of any answer at all, they start having one of those lovely conversations that excludes your existence, again. 

“Goddamn son of a bitch, we’ve got to get rid of those things.” 

“Charlie said there’s no point now they’re online. How would we even start? Great example right here.” 

“So what? We just roll over and die?” 

Tall guy, not Sam, takes a reassuring step to fake Dean which means he takes a step away from you and your desk. “This might be a good thing ok, if she knows she can help us track it.” 

You refuse to believe it because it’s ridiculous. Those books are works of fiction and there’s no possible way they are real. Because if the books are true then that means monsters are… nope. You live alone so there’s definitely no way. But you should clarify. Even if it’s a thousand percent the most ridiculous thing you have ever heard, you should still double-check. 

“Are you trying to say that you’re actually Sam and Dean? Like, you think you’re Sam and Dean from the books?” 

It’s scarily-similar-to-the-description-of-Dean that leans in with both hands flat on your desk and growls. “Honey, we don’t think okay, we _are_ them. I’m Dean and this is Sam, and those books you decided to read? Yeah, they’re about us.” 

“But that means monsters are…” 

“Real. Monsters, angels, and everything between.” 

> She may not have known about the ticking clock already counting down the remaining seconds of her young life. She may mistakenly have thought that her newfound temper was the reason for her flushed cheeks. She did know one thing for sure. One completely life-changing fact with absolute certainty, because the fact was staring at her with more intensity than she'd ever known. A man named Dean Winchester just told her that every terrifying monster she could imagine was real. 

The voice in your head, unfortunately, had not been wrong yet. 


	5. Down the rabbit hole...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's worse; fanfiction about two real people you just met or a narrator obsessed with Dean Winchester?

> Y/N pushed forward onto her elbows and pressed her fingers into her temples. Outwardly it might look like an attempt to relax but she was actually attempting to massage away the oncoming headache. It had been a tiresome, stressful day that had exhausted her long before Sam and Dean Winchester had arrived. Up until then, her biggest concern had been catching up on her mounting work, something that was now trivial in comparison to the monster roaming her neighborhood.
> 
> Her disorientation was not aided by the Winchesters themselves. Or Dean. He was a problem, a curse, and a mystery in one flannel-clad package. Y/N wanted to strangle him, mostly. He’d sauntered into her domain and attempted to take control where he hadn’t been invited to. He was short-tempered and disrespectful. Yet when she considered what it might be like to wrap her fingers around his throat and finally silence him—a fantasy she wouldn’t have been prone to normally —her mind wandered of its own accord. No, she didn’t usually indulge in flights of fancy, which is why she read so extensively, that is until Dean drifted into her life. Now what would begin as a simple imaginary tirade towards the man, morphed into her nails carding through his hair while she brought her lips to his. His lips that were suddenly so fascinating…

“Erm, Y/N?” Sam interrupts you, well her, causing you to slump into your hands where you’re still leaning on your desk. You could only hope that the way you’re staring at nothing doesn’t appear quite as wistful as it feels.

Your narrator had started this absurd new direction in her story shortly after you’d accepted the men in front of you to be Sam and Dean Winchester. She’s been filling your head with these seemingly endless paragraphs about Dean. Bubbling new emotions and how you notice each of his seemingly perfect features for the first time. So, while you're trying to have a conversation with the two men, you simultaneously have to listen to her pining after Dean on your behalf. And then there's the way your body reacts to everything the voice is saying. You’re not sure if you’re lusting after Dean or if the voice is, either way, you find yourself licking your lips in anticipation or trying to suppress a shiver in your warm office. 

It’s exhausting.

“Sorry, you were- I mean you’re telling me that because the first victim's murderer has an alibi, you came to check it out and linked four deaths because they all had life insurance policies?” You pause, unsure, “no offense but that doesn’t sound very, uh, weird. I mean- I have life insurance.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “of course _you_ do, you work at a damn insurance company.”

You’d actually been asking Sam but it’s so easy to fall into the trap of arguing with Dean since it’s been happening for the last thirty minutes now. “Life insurance is very common, you know, maybe _you_ should consider getting some.”

The problem is whenever you do decide to engage with Dean, your benevolent narrator takes the opportunity to inform you of something else attractive about him. Thus neutralizing your annoyed reaction.

> She couldn’t help it. Though she fought and struggled to control herself she found herself looping through the same motions again. Warmth bloomed over her chest to accompany the spark of aggression. Her tongue fired off a response like a bullet leaving a gun. As she hit her intended target, marked by Dean’s creased brow or the clench of his jaw, she’d experience a pleasant moment of weightlessness as a small, relieved sigh would leave her body. This petty behavior would be uncharacteristic for her if this were a regular acquaintance whom she simply disliked. He was not any other offender. Dean was both her tormentor and tormented, not just because of the way his tongue peeked out over his bottom lip for a teasing second.

Sam clears his throat, again, “we found the insurance connection after we figured out what it is. The first case, the murder victim? We saw the shifter on video before they-”

You brighten up, interrupting, remembering the fact from your reading, and happy to have no internal monologue. “Oh, the eye thing? Like the shifter who pretended to be Dean in the books?”

“It wasn’t only in the books… how many times, that happened!”

Dean has been getting more and more agitated by your slow realization that everything you’d read was real. Sam, in trying to explain why they needed the information about the claim beneficiaries, has been worlds apart more understanding.

“Right, of course. Don’t worry this isn’t weird for me or anything.” You cross your arms over your chest like you can block out Dean’s negativity with the action. Or stop the flush on your skin from continuing up your neck.

Sam scrunches his face as he gets to the end of even his patience, although you’re not sure whether it’s you or Dean.

“Yeah, the um-eye thing. Anyway, we found three other unsolved cases except these weren’t as big news because no one was arrested for them. But all died the same way, all had sizable insurance policies with First National, and all the spouses practically went into hiding after the claim was paid.”

“Right. And you think Maggie Hall is a shifter who killed her own husband?”

Sam nods, “something like that.”

“Ok, ok. What can I do to help?” You’re not ok with monsters or guns, or all the crime. Although little data protection infraction seems in your wheelhouse. “Do you have the names? I could get you all the information.”

Dean barks a laugh from the chair he’s sunk into, crossing his own arms at some point.

> His broad shoulders are slung low, his head bouncing against the back of the chair. She’d be forgiven for thinking that he’s a teenager asleep in class for the way he’s sitting and the lack of interest he has in talking to her. Except he’s not treating her like the dull teacher, quite the opposite. She’s offering to break the rules and so he’s treating her like a child trying to stay up past bedtime. He infuriates her as much as he makes her want to prove him wrong. She thinks she could do it too, given enough time, she could prove everything he’s said wrong and then perhaps he’d show her a modicum of respect.

You’re reminded then of your own strange circumstances. Where you’d had a comment waiting for Dean’s apathetic laugh you stop and consider for the first time if you should tell someone. Them even. Not screaming at Laura to ask if she heard it too, but honestly tell someone. If you’re committing to believing the Winchesters exist does it make sense that they would be the only people to actually believe you?

“And you’re sure that it’s a shapeshifter?” You don’t look up to see their faces, hoping it’ll make this easier.

Dean doesn’t notice the soft change in your voice at first. “ Just because you’ve read a few books and think you know a few things…”

Sam waves a hand in Dean’s face to shut him up, making you wonder where that trick has been for the last forty-five minutes. “What makes you ask that?”

You bring your eyes to theirs now, flicking between them. Both of them are wearing those intense stares, boring into you again, softer now. Something tells you that you could take twenty minutes to gather your courage and they’d still wait.

Sam is looking at you kindly and Dean, for the first time since you’ve seen him, is patient.

You know that lightning isn’t supposed to strike twice but it feels like maybe you have been hit with two realizations at once. Firstly, you couldn’t tell them. As absurd as the voice is it somehow seems too weird even for them. They are hunting an actual monster and you are struggling with possible mental illness. If they didn't cart you off to a head doctor at the very least they'd think you're crazy.

Secondly, and it pains you to prove your narrator correct, but Dean really does have a rugged yet boyish charm when he’s not scowling at you.

Not that it matters if you play along with the voice and her desires for you to fall for Dean. Because you’re going to help them find this shifter and they’ll do what the Winchesters do in every Supernatural book you’d poured over. They’ll get into their car and leave.

“It’s nothing. I’m was thinking-it’s fine. We should get going before security wonders why I’m still here.” You stand up ready to go digging through the filing cabinets. “I guess you need to look at those files now?”

* * *

It’s Thursday. A regular and normal Thursday. Nothing out of the ordinary. You hadn’t spent the night before re-reading Skin because shifters are real and there is one stalking your companies’ clients. And you’re definitely ignoring the notification icon on the Tumblr app.

Sure, before you’d met them maybe you’d read one or two, or twenty unpublished short stories written by independent writers. The books had ended and you’d had nothing new to read. You’d already known the fan-created content was out there because you’d glanced at it when you downloaded the books. It had been so easy to retrace your steps.

But knowing what you knew now, knowing that the Winchesters were real, you certainly couldn’t go around reading fanfiction anymore.

Definitely not.

Which is why it’s Thursday morning and you’re at your desk. Jittery from another late night, on edge because what if they are killing the shifter right now and curious as to where the voice has gone. Again. Adding the Tumblr notification on top of that pile was like throwing lighter fluid onto a burning building. Not really going to make things worse in the grand scheme of things, still probably frowned upon.

The notification only bothers you as much as it does because it’s something that should be manageable. Unlike everything else, you can deal with this little red badge.

“Y/N, I brought you a coffee!”

As you search for the source of the voice you see Laura coming across the office with two cups in her hands from the coffee shop down the street.

“Coffee?” You cock your head at her.

Laura makes it to your desk and sets down the brown to go cup directly on top of the paper on your desk as if trying to force you to engage with it before continuing to work. “You seemed a little tired this morning. Thought you could use a pick me up.”

It’s nice of her to have noticed. It’s even nicer that she didn’t tell you to your face this morning since you’d have been annoyed by the comment first thing. The strange thing is that she’s brought you coffee of all drinks. The cozy little coffee shop is where you lunch together when you both decide to treat yourselves and, as at home, you drink tea.

Still, it's the thought that counts. “Thanks, that’s nice of you. My treat next time.”

If she catches the confusion still lingering in your tone then she ignores it, electing to wink at you, unaware. “Don’t be silly. Anything for you.”

Today wouldn’t be the first time that Laura’s perkiness had continued throughout the day so you write off the weirdness and let her walk away. Now would be an excellent time to pick up your phone. You're going to drink the coffee in front of you out of politeness anyway, why not take a break at the same time? You pick up the cup first to signify the start of your coffee break. Unfortunately with actual coffee. Laura did at least add cream so it's slightly more palatable.

Flicking at your screen you open your emails first under the pretense of checking all your notifications at once. There aren't many since you checked at breakfast. Then your Facebook because surely someone in your life has done something horrific enough that they want to share it with you. Nothing except your cousin's pregnancy announcement, which you mom had told you about days ago. Finally, you can't avoid it, the Tumblr app calls for you and click it. The notification was for a message and it's a reply to one you sent.

It's important to note that you'd sent the message before you met Sam and Dean.

Although since this conversation has been started already there's no harm in messaging back. It would be rude not to. You'd only wanted to tell someone that you enjoyed their story, and they messaged back thanking you for your feedback. It was perfectly innocent. It's not like you were choosing to read more stories. And you weren't going out of your way to find the Dean ones.

**Hey, thanks for getting back to me. I only read the books last week and I loved your story. Great characterization. Looking forward to reading some more!  
**

It does feel like a cheap shot since the Winchesters are not characters anymore, they're people. Although it's not like they'd find out.

You click send on your reply at the same time as you take another sip of your free coffee and wince. Laura is safely back out of sight at reception now so hopefully, you will get away with it without offending her.

The notification is gone. That's one less itch to scratch. Only the remaining laundry list of problems in your life to deal with now.

Starting with the email from Mark that pops up in the corner of your computer screen, asking you if you'd cleared Maggie Halls' file yet.


	6. A Brand New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find something online that makes no sense but is impossible to deny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry but like all my writing we are in that awkward middle where we have to hang on for dear life and hope it improves by the end. Pray for me.

You hadn’t gone looking for it, the story. Your new online friend sent you a link.  Innocently.  Casually. Like she wasn’t going to absolutely,  swiftly, and  utterly change everything.

It was only supposed to be a story.

You had tried to explain as gently as possible that you weren’t reading fics anymore but she'd sent you the link anyway, in case you changed your mind. She hadn’t been holding a gun to your head or anything, you didn’t have to click it. You could have let it sit in your little inbox till the end of time. She’d mentioned that you might like this story is all. This person, the writer she linked you to, was well known and pretty good. The stories were one of a kind. It had been late, you’d already been tucked up in bed and unable to sleep.  The blue light from your phone was doing very little to help with the whole getting to sleep thing, but really, it’s Friday night. No harm, no foul.

Your bedroom was the perfect temperature, your blankets were the perfect weight over your body.  Everything was soft and cocoon-like, the ideal place to hide from the world while you read something you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. More fanfiction.

The first story was twelve chapters and you devoured them. Your new friend had been right. The story was brilliant.  If you hadn’t known better this could have been another unpublished book, albeit shorter than Supernatural books usually are. There had been a vivid interaction between Sam and Dean finishing each other's sentences that felt bone-chillingly real. Probably because you’d seen them do the exact same thing in front of you a few days ago.

Well written fanfiction is not the issue. Nor is the fact that you’re reading fanfiction at all. The crazy, unbelievable part came down to four familiar words.

> Little did she know.

If you remembered anything it was those words. They had haunted what nightmares you’d had since you heard them a week ago. Those words were the reason you jumped easier at every sound or movement.

Then you’d read them on the screen. Little had that character known that she wouldn't make it past the week. Alone those words weren’t irrefutable proof, not enough to convict anyway, the rest of the story might be. The way it  was written. It was like you could hear the words in your head again, a different song sung in the same voice. An echo of what you heard most days since that first Friday in May.

Only when you get to the end do you dare to even think your suspicions.

There’s no way. It’s impossible.

The clock at the top of your phone tells you it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning now. You hadn’t devoured that first story as quickly as you thought.  Maybe you’re tired. That’s what was causing this delirium. Tiredness was sending you further and into the realms of crazy. Crazier than the voice or the Winchesters or the fact that a shapeshifter is killing people.

It’s beyond deranged. It’s insane, it’s… it’s… unbelievable.

Your life, what you’ve been hearing, it can’t be just that; a story. It’s supposed to be in your head. Sure, everything you'd heard had been strung together like a book but it’s not _actually_ being told. It’s something in you, broken, you needed an MRI. Or a therapist. You read too much, that’s all. You have too many books in your memory.

It would be easy to turn your phone off now. One a.m. That’s sleeping time. Your eyelids are heavy and it’s a struggle to keep them open.

But you click the link that says **Masterlist** anyway and see a post for something in progress at the top of the page. **Till Death Do Us Part**.

The synopsis alone makes your throat dry and your heart stop.

> Y/N spends her days on paperwork and procedure. In the worst days of people’s lives, she is the full stop at the end of the sentence.  When a loved one  is lost  , she replaces the irreplaceable; by completing the insurance claim. Her work sits on the outskirts of tragedy, far away enough that she pretends to have a normal life. But when she discovers two men attempting to steal her job out from under her? Everything changes.

The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop.  Gravity has forced you deeper into your pillow to the point where you couldn’t get up, couldn’t move, if your house caught fire around you. It’s a comfortable prison but you’re still trapped all the same, which only leaves scrolling, clicking, and reading as your options.

Yet your thumb is slow. It’s the only part of you that can move but you can’t bring yourself to do it. You suddenly  can’t sleep either and indecision starts eating at you.

It might be an hour before you click on the first link—chapter one—it might be thirty seconds.  The chapter eventually loads and when you do start skimming the words something steals the air from your lungs. A single line stands out to you, black letters on a white background that will haunt you for the rest of your short life.

> This is a story about Y/N Y/L/N.

* * *

The early morning sun starts to leak through the gap in your curtains, sending a slither of light into the room. It slices over your bed, your arms still holding your phone and your face.  It's not particularly bright but it's enough to inform you that you haven't slept yet and you paw at your cheeks to wipe the tears from them.

Six chapters out of ten. There are six chapters online for anyone to read. Every facet of your life. There’s so much more than the words you'd heard in your head.  Entire sections where the real you deviated from the path, because the you that is being written about has no idea what’s coming. She has no idea that she’s going to die. Or that you both are.

When you’d first heard that you’d run home in a panic but in the story you never did. You sat at your desk and worked mindlessly, made small talk with Harry about his weekend plans. You’d carried on living.

The invasion of your privacy is not the reason for the tear tracks blotting your face though. No, you'd cried for two reasons. Frustration had been what made your chin wobble and your eyes sting. What you were reading is what knocked your resistance enough to feel the wetness on your cheeks.

It's poetic.  The irony of this character only learning to _really_ live in her final days, without knowing it's her final days. The foreshadowing and tragedy perfectly littered throughout. You may think you're better off knowing but what did you actually know? The only thing you know is the same thing everyone on the planet knows; death is coming. Yours is sooner than you'd like, sure, but you still had no idea _what_ was coming at all.

You're not a crier, not pretty prose alone, but this isn't a character. It's you. The implication of sad, wasted days were your choices, your time, your shell of an existence.

You wouldn't have even thought your life was that ordinary until you'd read that it was.

So, you'd read.  Over and over again as if you can will the ending into existence by memorizing whatever has already been posted. Sleeping was second hand to re-reading.  You'd thought back to everything before this and your love of a good mystery, convincing yourself that you alone could find the clues. That’s where the key to solving this was. Hidden to anyone else but you.

Now you know every word; the good, the bad, and the ones you already heard in your head. There’s nothing. No glaringly obvious tips or indications anyway. Nothing that makes you sit up dramatically because of a fact only you know about yourself. Then again—you're reminded by the promise of an update soon—it’s still in progress.

The answer hits you between your eyes.

This story _is_ in progress. It’s not a product of your mind anymore, it's being written by a human being. Although you have no idea how you are hearing it, or how she’s controlling you. Or if she brought you into existence like a monster from the books. There's still hope. She’s a person typing on a keyboard.

People can  be stopped. Keyboards can be smashed. Stories can go unfinished.

You click back to her main profile and see her name. Emma. Your author has a name now, all the better to find her.

Emma. Iowa. That doesn't narrow it down much further. The only other slightly identifying piece of information on her profile is her age.

There's one thing Emma has gotten right in everything she's written so far, you have changed. Imminent death will do that to a person. Old you would have given up, let defeat win out. Luckily you're not that person anymore.

Not everyone is as honest as you would like when it comes to insurance.  Sometimes you need to treat things like fraud because they are fraud, so you already have a friend who has dug up information for you in the past. With a lot less to go on.

**Hi Stan,**

**It's been a while but I was hoping you had time to check something out for me. I'm looking for an Emma, 34, Iowa. I also have a link to her blog below. I know it's a long shot but if I can get a phone number, address, anything. You'd be doing me a huge favor. Are normal fees ok? Let me know if you're busy or if anyone else can do this for me.**

**Thanks,**

**Y/N**

The email is brief but once your phone makes that tiny woosh sound to signify it's sent you feel comforted. A small semblance of relief wraps you up like the blanket you still have tucked under your arms. For the first time, you're not blindly trying things and hoping to solve the problem. You may not know how this is happening but you're being proactive with the facts you have.  If your off the books P.I friend can actually find this woman then you may have an honest to God shot at preventing your own death. You might even get her out of your head to boot.

You check the time again, even though it's six a.m. you're finally tired enough to close your eyes.


	7. Hot Drinks and Cold Cases

> Margaret Hall,  formerly  Margaret White, was a dreamer. That is until she met her late husband. Before meeting Andy she had dreamt of being an actress,  perhaps, or a dancer. Moreover, she had dreamt of the world and any career that would allow her to see every corner of it.  Teenage dreams are often far-reaching and difficult to  attain, not that Maggie gave up or settled in any way. She understood that dreams change and hers evolved into a romance with her high school sweetheart. His father owned a restaurant and wanted Andy to follow in the family business.  Maggie wanted to follow Andy, whether that was to the furthest reaches of the Middle East or the eastern end of Peach Street. He loved her as much as she loved him, so he’d resisted and tried to send her away after her dreams.  Luckily Maggie was a lick smarter than her husband and saw straight through his stupidity.

> They tried to start a family but after years of failed attempts they found out it was impossible, the Hall family genetics skipped Andy’s generation. Maggie didn’t care as much as she thought she would.  They could adopt or foster, or they could live renound as the local childless couple with too much disposable income. It might even be enough to travel the world one day. Not that it mattered if they did see the world she had dreamt of as a child. As long as Maggie had Andy, then she had all the family and adventure she’d ever need.
> 
> Her last memory of Andy is the  ghostly  shade of grey his skin held when she had to identify his body. Murdered felt like the wrong description for what happened to him, he  was stolen  from her.

> Of course, seeing him on that cold, metal table wasn’t Maggie’s hardest day. She thought it had been at the time but since then her life had gotten so much worse, so very  quickly.

You swallow  thickly  as you turn onto Peach Street. You have the file, again, in your bag and you hope it’s the last time you’ll ever hold that manilla nightmare.  Then the voice in your head, the writer, started talking about Maggie and you almost consider going home again.

It was only one signature that you’d forgotten to get. Everything  was done, claim processed, entered in the system. This was  literally  dotting the ‘i’, assuming that she signed her name Maggie and not Margaret.

The voice talking about Maggie is what makes you doubt being here at all. You didn’t want to be her worst day. Not that you think you are but what if you were part of it? All the preparation and niceties in the world wouldn’t make this easier.  This wasn’t a loss you could compartmentalize away like you usually do with clients since you’d  just  heard the abridged version. You could be as sympathetic as you are with any other spouse in mourning, nothing would change the fact that your heart had broken for Maggie about twenty seconds ago.

You don’t stop. Not for your own selfish reasons, although you won’t deny you’re a little selfish; you keep going for Maggie. This thing you need her to do is a few blinks from her entire life and then it will  be done. No more people coming into her home reminding her of her dead husband. Andy. She’d said Andrew when you’d visited the first time. You’d written down Andrew but he was an Andy.

You shake your head, you need to be stronger than this, focused. As much as you wanted to sympathize with Maggie Hall it may not even be Maggie that you are going to see.

No matter what the voice says there was always the possibility that you were about to meet a shifter.  How you  were supposed  to tell the difference you had no idea since you had no silver stashed away ready to  subtly  hand over. That was  probably  a good thing. If you showed up with silver and the shifter realized you knew what they were? Well, that thought terrified you. Imminent death or not you didn’t want to go looking for danger. You were happy to leave the monster to the experts, all you needed was a signature. If you could do it on the doorstep you would, but two minutes inside would be an acceptable compromise. In and out. Done and dusted.

You’d convinced yourself this would be fine, that you didn’t need backup or support. Finding yourself on the doorstep of 75 Peach Street is a completely different matter.

> Y/N knocked  commandingly  on the door. She heard the sound echo as if the inside was a cavernous space waiting to engulf her.  A stark contrast to her previous visit when she’d found two burly men filling up the whole space and pretending to know her. She might have  been convinced  nobody was home, there wasn’t so much as a rustle for the longest period. Y/N began to wonder if she should walk away and make a return journey another time.  That is until the lock of the door clicked  slowly, fearfully, with none of the confidence of a woman who so  bluntly  referred to her dead husband before.

You’d noticed how  slowly  the door opened  obviously, still, it was the voice who put a name to what you see in Maggie. Fear. The door only opens ajar, a chain across the gap stopping pushy intruders. Your own concern melts away at the sight of scared Maggie Hall peering out of the darkness of her own home.

> She could comment on the time of day and question the darkness within but it would be a pointless question.  That much was already explained by the closed curtains and shuttered blinds visible from every outside window. Y/N is not one to point out the obvious unless she is clarifying a fact for her records.  She could also argue that the brightness in which Maggie Hall chooses to live was not her concern.

> Y/N did none of these things and only endeavored to get what she needed  quickly  and  precisely, having no idea that this meeting was another thing on a long list of things. Things whereby she had no idea how important they were.

“Mrs. Hall?” you ever so  slightly  lean in, all the better to see her face and still failing.

You expect the correction insisting that you call her Maggie, instead, she stutters out an affirmation, “y-yes ?”

You only pause for a moment, “Mrs. Hall, do you remember me? Y/N Y/L/N from First National?”

“The insurance company?”

“Yes, the insurance company. I was missing a signature on the paperwork and I was hoping I could get you to sign it. I promise it’ll only be a second and it’s the last thing we need.”

> While she waited for Maggie to make a decision Y/N  was struck by  a conflicting myriad of memories.  The woman she had met had been not only more confident and straight forward, but she’d shown no feelings about the insurance claim at all. Mrs. Hall had been rather blase about the money she would be receiving, hardly remembering the account details it was to  be paid  into. Now the woman before Y/N sprung back in horror.  She slammed the door closed only to throw it wide open again seconds later, no security chain and fervent horror adorning her features.

“There’s a problem with the insurance?!” She shouts at you. Almost. The emotion is there, not the volume. As if shouting has  been trained  out of her.

You’re quick to stop her panicking, you didn’t do well with other people panicking, “no, no. It’s fine, everything is fine, everything  is processed. I  just  need a signature to  officially  close the claim but  really, it’s all done.”

She inhales like it hurts her throat and exhales as  violently. Although she does, at least, appear to be breathing again.

“Mrs. Hall, Maggie, are you sure you’re ok? You seem upset.”

Where you hope to calm her down enough to stop her breaking apart, instead you set her off.

“Of course I’m upset. My husband is dead!”

This was going to take longer than two minutes.

* * *

“Thank you, Mrs. Hall.” You’re not stupid enough to wish her well as you leave.

> Y/N fell from the step outside of Maggie Hall’s home much like a dazed and confused newborn giraffe trying to take its first steps atop uncertain legs. Maggie had kept the lights low, had led her to the lounge, and only turned on a single lamp to see the line where her John Hancock was required. She had signed her name Maggie and dotted the ‘i’ with a shaky strike, rather than a neat jab.  Still, it wasn’t the shocking change from night to day that had Y/N wobbling unpredictability to the pavement. The woman seemed to have no recollection of the Winchesters, whom Y/N had completely,  accidentally mentioned.

> The fact that Dean himself was taking large strides across the street to meet her was merely a coincidence after she brought them up. Y/N was not aware of any hidden powers she possessed to wish for things and have them appear.  However, intended or not the older Winchester was here all the same.

You’re looking back towards the door you’d  just left with disbelief.  Which is why Dean has to catch you with his hands wrapped around your shoulders to stop you bumping into him or consequently  walking into the road. “Hey, hey. Wanna watch where you’re going, honey? Good thing I was already keeping an eye on things here, huh?”

He probably thinks he's being funny about you nearly walking into the road but you don't laugh.“She had no idea who I am.”

“What?”

> When she whips her head to him it turns out to be, very unfortunately, the first time she’s seen Dean Winchester bathed in sunshine. Not under fluorescents or in darkness.  Absolutely drenched in the sun's warm glow, highlighting the forest green of his eyes enough to pull a silent ‘wow’ from her lips. It’s uncontrollable then when she slips into her imagination, where his strong hands are holding her still as he leans into her. His tongue rolling over his bottom lip before he slots his mouth over hers. The pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her neck as he swallows the air from her lungs.

Crap. This again.  You can’t deny it’s a very pleasant mental detour but now you feel like you might fall down if he wasn’t holding you up, and moments ago you’d had other interests.

“Sweetheart? You ok?” His voice sounds worried if you’re inclined to believe it.

“Yeah-yes. I’m fine. I’m-she didn’t remember you.”

“So? I was there for five minutes, a week ago, before you kicked us out.”  His lip twitches when he mentions you kicking him out and he decides that you’re steady enough to let go of, as his arms drop.

Before you can reply he starts patting his pockets for his phone, which has coincidently started to ring. He only fleetingly  scowls at the name on the screen and then his face smooths out. He holds a finger up, “give me a second.”

> Dean took two steps away to speak into his phone, which seemed to be enough distance for Y/N to clear her head completely of her intoxication. He was becoming more of a constant in her life than the questionable sounds that came from her car engine. It had to be more than a simple coincidence that she once again found herself with him. This time without the distraction of Sam or the inherent urge to argue with him.

How much the voice encouraged you to think about Dean was becoming borderline embarrassing.

“You’re not understanding me.”  You emphasize by tipping your head forward and raising your eyebrows when he ends his call, not wasting a second. “She didn’t know me as if we’ve never met and I spent over an hour with her last week.”

His eyes flash in recognition, although it doesn’t seem to change whatever decision he’s already made, “coffee?”

* * *

Dean seems at home in the diner that you weren’t even aware of on the other side of town. The place smells of bacon and coffee with a side of Americana.  Somewhere in the deepest recesses, you recall a thousand instances in the books of Sam and Dean solving things over breakfast. You don’t mention that to him.  Understandably he doesn’t seem to appreciate his claim to fame.  Besides, you very recently understand what it feels like to be a subject other people are reading about.

The waitress walks over with a pad and what she thinks is a smile, “what can I getcha?”

Dean, in his natural habitat, is confident, “two coffees and a slice of pie please, sweetheart.”

> Y/N huffed, only  slightly. If asked she could claim it’s due to him ordering her a drink and the wrong drink at that. Dean's order was certainly not the reason for the huff or the crease between her brows. She didn’t want to admit the actual reason. She had too many other pressing matters in her life.  Too many to admit that him calling the waitress 'sweetheart' had felt seven shades of uncomfortable.

> She knew the other matters had to come first, not to mention she was being irrational. Logic didn't stop the absurd thought that she has to chase away.  It also doesn't stop the small curve of her lips when he looks at her expectantly, waiting for her with silent eye contact to add to the order. Unfortunately for Y/N, she was coming to realize that her feelings went beyond simply not wanting to kill him anymore. Beyond a distracting physical attraction even.  In another timeline, another story, she might even find herself using that elusive cure-all verb—like. She liked him.

You soften your face for the waitress, ignoring everything you’d heard and felt as best you can. You _needed_ to ignore it. “Can you change one of those coffees for a tea please and double the pie.”

The waitress purses her lips, “tea?”

“Any tea you have will be fine.”

She taps her pen against the pad and you wouldn’t  be surprised if she’s written some sort of insult on the paper.  She walks away without anything said out loud, which could be considered a kindness.

“Tea?” Dean repeats but with amusement in his voice compared to the waitress's judgment.

“Tea,” you confirm smiling wider, shrugging one shoulder. “You didn’t bring me here and buy me a slice of pie to debate tea versus coffee though, did you, Dean?”

He raises his finger again, forcing you to acknowledge how thick and commanding it is, “well, you never need an excuse for pie.”

It’s funny you guess. In the Supernatural books, Dean’s love of pie was a fun quirk that showed up at inopportune moments. The boys might  be stranded  in a hideout or undercover and Dean would always step out for pie. It’s the punchline to a joke.  Whereas sitting here with him illustrates the nuances of real-life compared to pulpy fiction. Dean talks about pie in front of you and there’s something childlike in the crinkles of his eyes, a quirk you can't get from literature.

“Sure. Still, there’s something you want to tell me?”

He sighs, it weighs him down like it could drown him. “That was Sam on the phone, leads have been drying up for a week now.”

> She felt like she had been on the receiving end of this conversation before. Past boyfriends telling her that it wasn’t her, it was them. Even when she suspected it might indeed be her. The déjà vu was unnerving.  Dean was not tied to her by the title boyfriend, unfortunately, which meant that his ‘dear John’ conversation was not his way of breaking up with her,  thankfully. This only begged the question, if it wasn’t her he was leaving, what else was he trying to let her down easy over?

“Not for nothing  I think  you’re right too. The widow she’s not a shifter, at least not anymore.”

It all clicks into place. He’s not leaving you, he's leaving the case, which by extension still means he's leaving _you_.

“You think the shifter moved on?” Even you can hear the panic in your own voice, it's not panic over a shapeshifter anymore at least.

“One coffee and one tea.” Your bubbly waitress interrupts with two drinks and you’re faced with a cup of half brewed leaf water. She’s gone before you can complain.

Dean doesn’t see his coffee while he tries to calm you down. “We’ll stick around a few more days, I’m not  just leaving. We gotta make sure it’s  really  gone.”

You’re still not fine with monsters and you’re still not looking for danger, the words come rushing out of your mouth anyway. “What if I had an idea to flush it out?”

He cocks his head like you're adorable for trying to play with the grown-ups, “you have an idea?”

“It’s about the money, right? The insurance money. So, let’s-let’s stop the money. Yeah… I can go to the bank and stop the transfer. Then it’s gotta come out of hiding?”

Dean sips his coffee. Slow and savoring. His whole hand wrapped around the small cup. The china clangs as he puts it back down. It’s an agonizing sixty seconds until he opens his mouth again.

“Solid plan, sweetheart. Ain’t no way you’re doing it.”

“It has to be me. I’ve done this before, the bank knows me.”

He clicks his teeth, “let me rephrase that, ain’t no way you’re doing it alone.”


	8. Undercover Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigations at the bank lead to FEELINGS.

The knock at your door interrupts your hand as you apply a muted lipstick. In the office, you’re a lip balm kind of woman but going to the bank today is an outing you put in a little more effort for. Your skirt and blouse are your normal work attire but there’s extra makeup, hair falling over your shoulders instead of wrapped up on your head, and your heels are half an inch higher. This is not new behavior. Going anywhere on company business always gets this kind of effort, in the same way that you’d dress up if you were going out for the evening. The result gets you a little more kindness in the world outside of your office walls.

The effort has absolutely nothing to do with the man on the other side of your front door.

“Y/N? You in there?” The knock comes again while you’re dabbing at the smudge from his first interruption.

“Yes! One second.”

Dean had insisted on coming with you, the trip is completely routine you’re glad to have him. You’re not paranoid, it’s not like the shifter has magic powers to know what you’re going to do, it can’t pop out of the woodwork at the bank to get you. You’re ninety-nine percent sure anyway. It will still be nice to have backup as if you’re doing something important. Even if you’re not, even if you’re doing your job and nothing more.

Dean has returned to his car when you step outside, he’s propped against it and from where he is he looks you up and down while you lock up.

“Well, don’t you look nice for a visit to the bank?” He asks once you’re approaching him.

It’s pointless to try and hide the blush but you look down at the ground anyway, in an attempt to. “I’m going on behalf of work, so, you know?”

He pushes himself up from the Impala and winks, “you sure you haven’t got a will they won’t they thing with some nerdy teller?”

“Why does he have to be nerdy?” you play mock offended.

“Because I bet all the nerds like you.”

You purse your lips. “Whatever, _nerd_.”

> Y/N had worried about many things since opening her eyes that morning. Where was her lost shoe? Why didn’t she have milk in the fridge? How long would it take to find the shifter? All of these paled in comparison to the concern she had over how easy things had become with Dean. This man—impossible as he and his brother were—was supposed to be, well, an inconvenience. Or she was supposed to be _his_ inconvenience. Her blood should boil when she spoke to him and at best they were supposed to work together begrudgingly. Perhaps with Sam wedged between them to referee.
> 
> That’s how it had started and that’s how she had expected their relationship to stay. In that reluctant space between enemies and acquaintances. Yet she slipped into the front seat of his car, a figurative piece of him, and sunk into the soft leather. It wasn’t her first time inside his Baby and that was only further proof that things had become too good. Much better than they should have been. She was comfortable.
> 
> Comfortable was not a safe place to be with Dean Winchester. Comfortable led to preposterous behavior like flirting, and flirting begets terrible decisions. For Y/N those end results were, admittedly, looking better and better with each passing minute.

You hate her sometimes. Maybe all the time. She’s trying to kill you after all.

If you weren’t so afraid of ‘it’ then your biggest worry wouldn’t be flirting with Dean. It would be the death hanging over your head. Unfortunately, it’s all too easy to put that in the back of your mind. Most people don’t think about death on a daily basis, that’s kind of the human condition. Knowing that it’s coming but ignoring it till the bitter end. So, Dean, the shifter, what shade of lipstick you’re going to wear—you make them all so much more urgent than they are.

The writer helps with finding distractions in things. You’re still allowed to hate her. You can hate that she knows you so well and that you don’t know if it’s because she created you, or you’re just unlucky. You can hate that she still hasn‘t told you how you’re going to die.

You’re also pretty sure that you hate her for the slow descent into liking Dean. It’s bad enough in your head. In the story online, it’s an actual love affair. And you still don’t know if it’s you or her that made the choice about him. Does she write it because you feel it, or do you feel it because you hear her? Or both?

“You’re quiet over there.”

You’re looking out of the window, seeing the world through Winchester eyes. “Sorry,“ you grin to yourself, "didn’t realize you were a chatty Kathy while you’re on a case.”

He chuckles, “didn’t realize you weren’t.”

> Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it. Dean glancing in her direction. Glance might be too much of a word for the half a second he takes his eyes off of the road. It would hardly warrant a thought were it not for his shoulders tensing when he’d faced forward again. Quiet anxiety settled over him, which doesn’t suit him.
> 
> Y/N ignored it, wrapped up in her own murky thoughts. She lightly tapped her foot but the sound sinks into the floor mat of the Impala. She couldn’t show Dean that the closer they get to their destination the less at ease she felt. Nerves she hadn’t thought she had. It had been her idea, her assurances to Dean that all she would do was go to the bank and leave. Nothing else to do with the case. Still, she was a civilian and even this much involvement was causing her fingers to tremble against her leg. Out of sight, of course, she wouldn’t want him to know. Dean would pull the rug out from under her if he suspected she might not be able to handle it.

You could handle it fine. You were the queen of handling it. You squeeze your hand into a fist anyway to stop your nervous habit in its tracks.

> With the bank finally in sight she resolved herself to take control of the situation. Dean was _her_ backup, not the other way around. This was another Thursday morning visit to an establishment she had been time and again. She would walk into the white stone building and do the same thing she has a hundred times before. And then Dean—plus Sam who is at the motel in case something comes up—would stay. Y/N had already wrestled with the idea that her actions might also cause the shifter to stay, but that felt like a necessary evil. If they killed the shifter now then she was saving a life down the road. Which in her more selfless moments was the motivation that she clung to desperately. In her own infinitesimal way, she was helping to save someone. The path that had brought her here, to this new version of herself, was one that ultimately made her braver. If only at the very last minute.

It’s rare that the voice says exactly what you need to hear. Although in the grand scheme of things the voice has only been around for a few weeks. It just feels longer because you’re not supposed to hear a voice in your head at all. On this occasion though she’s helpful. You step out of the car with a renewed sense of purpose. Once you start going through the motions, that begin with walking the steps up to the entrance, you really did calm down. This is the same old song and dance. And even if it wasn’t, you’re brave now, because she’d said so.

The bank is familiar territory. You’ve come here before to stop payments for legitimate reasons, you’ve been here to authorize money orders and verify paperwork. Sometimes you’re here for your personal banking too. It’s like Cheers if the show was about a financial institution; everyone knows your name.

Dean stays hot on your heels but doesn’t say anything at first. He’s silent as he holds the door open for you. Then as you’re walking towards the first teller he bumps your shoulder and nods at the man standing a few desks over, finally breaking the silence, “that your boyfriend?”

You stop dead and turn to him. Shocked by his audacity. Not only because he made a joke while your back is tense and your jaw firm, but for making you smile despite your resistance. Oh and there’s the fact that the teller he’s motioning at is a fifty-nine-year-old man with the largest bald spot you’ve ever seen, short of being actually bald.

“You’d make a cute couple.” He adds with a shrug, somehow resisting grinning, which might add insult to injury.

You feel your shoulders sink, the tension rolling away, and you try to bite back your laughter, and fail. “I’m not his type, but hey, you might be. Go and introduce yourself.”

“I would but I’ve got to stay here and keep an eye on _you_.”

> She doesn’t miss the emphasis, exactly as she hadn’t missed the way he’d complimented her when he picked her up. Or the way he’s looking at her now. As if they’re not in the middle of a bank, in the middle of the day, but in a bar somewhere about to make some bad decisions. She found it easy to push away her own feelings and refocus when there’s work to be done. However it was becoming more difficult to ignore Dean’s potential feelings. Not only did she not know if she was misreading the situation, but even if she wasn’t; what could she possibly do about it now?

“Next.” The sandy-haired woman you haven’t seen before calls, making it easy to ignore him, and the voice.

“Hi. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Jones to submit some financial reports on behalf of First National.”

She nods, “his receptionist is out sick today. Give me a second and I’ll go check if he’s ready to see you yet.”

She wanders off and you turn to Dean and the curiosity he’s wearing on his face. He leans in closer than he needs to and whispers to you, “we have an appointment?”

“Yeah, in real life you usually need an appointment for these kinds of things. Plus I told my boss I was coming so he asked me to bring in last month’s report backups to save someone else a trip.”

He ignores your reference to real-life versus his life as if he’s not standing there; existing. “You told your boss?”

They get away with so much in the books that clearly they have no idea how things work for normal people. “I told you this needed approval, I made up some anomaly and he signed it off.”

Dean looks at you like he’s thinking the exact same thing you were. That life is much simpler when you lie through your teeth.

The teller that you don’t know returns and he steps back freeing up your personal space. Truthfully you hadn’t realized he was still that close. She leads you to a small office with ‘Mr. Jones’ painted on the door before knocking and leaving.

“Y/N, always a pleasure to see you. Sorry about the wait.” Ben beams as he opens the office door, hiding his surprise to see Dean trailing behind you. “You haven’t been by in a while?”

You shake the hand he’s offering you with a smile, “they’ve been keeping me busy. Luckily I had something I needed to be rushed through so I jumped on the opportunity to come by.”

Dean closes the office door behind him and clears his throat.

“Oh, sorry. Ben, this is my colleague Dean.” You only comprehend that you’re supposed to use an alias for him after his name slips out. It’s only a first name though, that doesn’t count, hopefully. You tuck your hair behind your ear in an attempt to throw him a quick, apologetic look. “He’s new. I’m showing him the ropes.”

Ben shakes Dean’s hand and does an excellent job hiding how tight Dean’s grip is. Something you see evidence in when his knuckles pop white.

You all take a seat and then everything becomes simple, routine. You hand over the financial reports and Ben takes a cursory look at them. He promises to dedicate proper time to them later. There’s small talk over mutual acquaintances from your office and some disputes from the month before last. This is something many of your colleagues have done before you. Someone always has business here and paper backups need to be brought in. So, over the years, it became a standing catch-all appointment. Reports and insurance and some chit chat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“There is one more thing.” You begin in a charming tone.

Ben lets out a small business like chuckle from behind his desk, “of course there is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

You pull out a few sheets of stapled forms that Mark signed off yesterday afternoon. “It’s nothing really. We submitted this claim for payment but have since found some irregularities. I was hoping you could stop the transfer until we straighten everything out.”

“You wouldn’t ask unless we still had time, so I don’t see why not.” He takes the papers and checks if everything is in order before he starts typing on the screen in front of him.

For the first time since you walked into the office, your attention isn’t required on the banker in front of you, so you check in on Dean. He’s staring intently at Ben, hard eyes that are trying to bore a hole in the man’s skull. It’s a good thing Ben has been focused on you and not noticed.

“All done. Don’t tell me that’s all you came in for?” Ben calls your attention back.

You shrug, “you know me. I like to do these things myself.”

He nods, understanding, and stands up at the same time you do. He holds out his hand again, bending towards you a little as he takes yours, “that’s because you’re nothing if not thorough.”

There’s a scoff from behind you that you ignore because you are indeed thorough, and whatever Dean wants to say can wait until you’re outside.

“I could say the same for you. Thanks for your help, Ben.”

You make a hasty exit and get halfway across the tiled floors outside of Ben’s office before Dean speaks again. “That’s the guy then, huh? Think you’d do better with Danny DeVito over there.”

There’s none of his playfulness this time. Nothing inappropriate or light about his mood. Even with his callback to something that had been a joke earlier, his words are as steely and hard as he’d been staring at Ben.

Something familiar brews in your gut. It’s stormy and turbulent. It’s the hint of an argument on the tip of your tongue. Dean has turned serious for some reason and he’s sending you hurtling towards angry.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” you’re grinding the words out through your teeth at a volume only he will hear, “but no. Ben is _married_. Besides you’re the one who started this joke, I never said anything about having a boyfriend.” You’re storming towards the doors because you’re not prone to making a scene and you don’t intend to start now.

> Infuriatingly he says nothing. No smart-mouthed comeback that forces her to be equal parts furious and infatuated, which means that each step until she hits the fresh air outside is like another twist on a wind-up toy. Eventually, she’s going to snap.
> 
> Y/N hadn’t felt like this since they’d broken into her office. She’d found herself falling in other ways since then, but the anger had dissipated since that night until it faded away altogether. In an instant, his irrational reaction has sparked the flame again. She had done exactly what she was supposed to have done, and she had done it well. No suspicion or fumbling over her words. Before he’d opened his mouth she might have even been proud of herself.

You had indeed been proud of yourself. Ben had no clue and he’dstopped the payment like needed him to do. You pace on the sidewalk. A few steps on the spot wondering what in the hell is going on. He is supposed to be giving you a ride home so you can work. Both the Winchesters insisted that the office might not be safe until the shifter was dead. Since all roads lead back to you and all google searches lead back to your office building.

That all would be well and good if you weren’t so livid you can’t even see straight. Worse than that, you have no idea why you’re quite as angry as you are.

> She’d left him standing inside, feet planted in the same spot he’d been in when she told him off. She’d gone without him or his permission to leave, and she hoped her act of defiance annoyed him half as much as she was. Y/N considered walking away, there was a bus stop around the corner and she could get most of the way home. Public transport would give her a chance to rest outside of his car that smells of worn leather mingled with his scent. She inhales until fresh air fills her stomach, then her chest and then she holds it. A borrowed breathing technique from the week of yoga she took years ago. Her lips shake with her exhale and it helps. Not to explain anything, not his reaction nor hers, but her heart rate steadies. She’d be mad about calming herself down so immediately if she hadn’t just calmed herself down.

You don’t turn around when you hear his footsteps catching up behind you however you do stop pacing. You’re a fair woman and you’ll give him the chance to apologize.

"Get in, I’ll take you home.”

His hand is on the Impala when you spin to face him, he’s about to get in and expects you to follow him. He tosses his head in the direction of the car telling you as much.

“No.”

“Y/N, get in.” One foot moves in your direction and before he can take a full step you tell him again.

“Didn’t you hear the first time? No.”

> In that crystalizing moment, Y/N decided that she did, in fact…

“Oh, you can shut up too!” You spit out, eyes flicking to the sky because, where else do you look when you’re shouting at a writer’s voice in your head?

You’re not concerned about your outburst towards the voice in front of Dean. Instead of worrying you turn before he can stop you, and you know immediately that you are making the right decision. How? Because the voice _does_ shut up, which meant whatever she wanted involved you staying there and talking to Dean, not striding away to the bus stop.

You can see the bus shelter in a few minutes. There’s a woman there, along with her son, waiting not so patiently. It’s surprising to see anybody there in the middle of the day. The bus stop hadn’t been far from the bank but you suppose it took him a moment to get in his car and debate leaving you, so that’s why you make it this far before you hear him pull up.

He slows to a crawl in the road beside you, engine low but still rumbling away and burning fuel. “Would you stop being so stubborn and let me take you home?”

That doesn’t sound like much of an apology. Or any apology at all.

“Come on sweetheart, _please_? I need to get you safe.”

If he wasn’t Dean Winchester then that line would sound like macho bullshit. Except, he _is_ Dean Winchester. It had only been an hour ago you were scared to even go to the bank. And he might not have said sorry but he did, at long last, say please.

You’re not giving up, you’re heels are a little higher than normal is all and a ride home would save your feet.

You don’t say anything as you step to the passenger side door, he doesn’t say anything as he stops the car completely. You’re both good at that. Silence.

> The seat is as soft as it had been at the start of her day. The music is at the same volume he’d set it at when he realized she wasn’t looking for a conversation. The difference was, she wasn’t tapping her foot to fight the nerves now. Y/N was too busy cycling through the last hour of her life like each minute was an index card in a library catalog. Or, say, a folder in an insurance filing cabinet. She was, mostly, confused. Everything had been smooth sailing, in a way her life hadn’t been since she found out that monsters existed. And then things changed. Flip flopped. Again. Until she’s back in his car, unable to escape him. Realizing that she never had a chance to.

You sigh. It was your own fault for thinking you could step off of this insane rollercoaster that was your life. The voice was never going to leave, Dean would, and in a year’s time you’d be rocking yourself to sleep inside the asylum you’ll be living in by then. Assuming you weren’t dead.

When he pulls up outside your house you’re up and out before Baby has stopped, “bye Dean.”

You don’t dream that he’s going to follow you.

You don’t imagine he’s going to walk you to your door and stop the key in the lock with his hand on his shoulder.

You don’t ever expect him to kiss you.

> Dean has a hundred rules, though he only ever cites one or two at a time. One he’s quoted time and again to Sam, “you don’t kiss the girl till the fat lady sings.” Or till the monster is dead, as the case may be. He has broken this rule a hundred times before, since a rolling Dean gathers no moss.
> 
> Y/N doesn’t know that, even if she did, she wouldn’t care. She has her hand wrapped around his tie, using it to pull him closer, tasting him and moaning into his mouth. Grateful for the extra height of her heels today. Thankful for a chance to feel his full lips against her own. She kisses him back until she’s lightheaded and a little longer still. Y/N had found the new life that was worth dying for and it resided in the space between their mouths, it was wrapped up in kissing him.

You laugh breathlessly as he pulls back, “so, I did a good job today?”

Dean hooks a finger under your chin and presses another chaste, brief kiss to your bruised lips. “Such a good job, sweetheart.”

And then he says his goodbyes because he has a job to do and it’s still the middle of the day. He leaves you after making you promise to stay at home and safe. He tells you he’s going to call when everything has 'blown over’.

You’re still giddy when you get inside and lock the door. Smiling as you start up your work laptop and turn on your tea kettle. Cheeks flushed pink when you hear the ping of new emails on your computer.

**Hi Y/N,**

**I’d say sorry that this took so long except you said it yourself, you didn’t have a lot to go on. Guess you’re lucky that I’m the best. The names Emma Eiffel. Couldn’t get you a phone number but I did manage to get you an address out in Des Moines. Details below.**

**Normal fees are fine.**

**Stan**


	9. The Final Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess it's time to meet your maker.

> Once again, it was Friday. She woke up a little later than usual because she was working from home on the advise of the Winchesters. She noticed that she was running low on body wash while she showered and added this to her list. She purposefully picked two odd socks to wear—one pastel pink and one baby blue—because under her jeans nobody would notice. Not that she planned on seeing too many people. The day was full of the usual formalities that she expected out of every single day, which she supposed is why she felt so peaceful. Never would she have suspected that this serenity she had found was the calm before the storm. Never would Y/N have thought that this was the tranquility some people experience on the day before they die.

“Like hell, is it,” you respond to the inside of your car as your foot presses a little harder on the gas pedal. Your speedometer zips past the ‘within 10%’ of the speed limit you’d normally drive at until you’re going 90 in a 70. You are, like she says, calm. You’re a great big blanket of calm even speeding along the interstate. Because you know exactly where you’re going. A little suburb that backs onto Lake Easter in Des Moines.

You’d almost hit the road the day before except by the time you’d street viewed the home you were traveling to, memorized three different routes, and talked yourself in and out of going several times; it was too late. What should have been a good day yesterday—a successful rookie mission and an unexpected kiss—had become all about _her_. Emma Effiel. You’d looked up her social media and scrolled back as far as a Supernatural convention she’d been to some years ago. You’d read an article in her local paper about a pie baking competition she’d won last summer. The paper hadn’t understood her quote as a reference to some books because they had printed it as is: “Dean loves pie.” They hadn’t even questioned who Dean was. Or the reporter must have asked at the time but she’d pretended to know a Dean.

There is a Dean, obviously. The _actual_ Dean. He’s working. He’d called you before you left to tell you they think they have a lead on the shifter. Another death on the other side of town that fits the pattern. They think they can catch this thing now before the insurance claim is even submitted, and put a stop to this. They also think you’re at home, safe and sound, not driving a hundred and something miles to run a quick errand and save your own life.

If everything goes right by the end of the day there will be one less monster in the world and one less voice in your head.

Although it’s not a voice anymore. It’s Emma. _She’s_ in your head.

You slow down when you take exit 9 onto shorter roads with fewer lanes, slowing down is a necessity to not kill yourself on the way to saving yourself. Eventually, you’re chugging along two-lane roads amongst other people going about their lives. A few red lights, some traffic, and then you’re turning onto her road and parking on the street outside her house.

You didn’t know she was home, technically, but there’s a truck in front of her garage. The bumper sticker says ‘driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole’ and you figure it’s a pretty safe bet that she’s inside.

Driving is easy but there’s a lump in your throat when it comes to actually walking to her front door. You’ve been walking since you were 11 months old. This is the hardest it’s ever been to move one foot in front of the other.

Her door is whitewashed wood with a window in the middle. You notice doors because you stand in front of so many, this one just makes you wonder if she’ll recognize you through the glass. If you look how she imagined, or if her brain will be able to even leap to something as crazy as you existing.

She has a doorbell so you press the small rubber button with a lone shaky finger. You hear a classic ding dong reverberate inside her home, although dulled by the walls.

She doesn’t take long to answer the door and once she does you’re paralyzed.

“Hello?”

Even with that one word, it’s her. You’ve heard a thousand or more words in that same vaguely midwestern accent. The interesting thing is actually hearing it outside of your head. Usually, she’s amplified, echoing, taking up the whole of your brain. In front of you, she’s so, to use her own phrase, _achingly normal_.

“Are you selling something? Because I’m sorry but I’m not interested.”

The door in her hand moves an inch and that triggers you, the thought of _this_ door closing.

“Hi, my name is Y/N Y/L/N, I believe you’re writing a story about me.” You hadn’t planned what to say, you’d been more concerned with getting here, although you suppose that’s not a bad place to start.

She narrows her eyes at you but the corners of her lips curl slightly, caught in surprise and thinking it’s a prank. “Did-Did someone put you up to this? Is this a joke?”

“No-one put me up to this. My name is Y/N and you’re writing a story about me, or about killing me I guess. I’m an insurance adjuster with a crappy car and I drink tea instead of coffee. Yesterday I visited a bank with Dean Winchester. Oh and there’s this.” You lean down and pull the hem of your jeans above your ankles, enough to show her your mismatched socks. One pale pink and one baby blue.

She looks between the two strips of fabric peeking out of your shoes. Her bottom lip trembles and her chest shudders to a stop. And then, when she brings her line of sight back up to your face, she faints.

It happens quickly. One minute she's standing there and the next she's collapsed on the floor like a rag doll. The only thing you can think of is what if someone sees this, so logically you do the only thing you can, you step inside and around her. She's only out for a few seconds, she's opening her eyes by the time you click the door closed.

You go through it again. She's woken up half groggy, half scared, and still questioning who you were. With the addition of now asking why you were inside her home.

The thing is, she knows it's you. That's why she'd fainted. Each time she asks is only confirming the obvious fact. It takes a few minutes but eventually, she admits it out loud. She knows you are who you claim to be, and she knows because an image of you was inside her head. You’d laughed at that, almost certain that she didn’t mean it in quite the same way as you've had to deal with. But that was a whole new can of worms that you hadn’t covered yet.

* * *

“How did you find me?” She’s got her legs tucked into her chest and her hands wrapped around a heavy glass filled with some amber colored alcohol. Possibly bourbon but you weren’t going to question her, even if it's still eleven in the morning. She’d made you a tea and although you hadn’t told her, she’d made it exactly how you liked it.

“That, well, wasn’t me actually. I have a friend, Stan, he’s done some work for me before. I asked him to try and find you. I didn’t know if he would manage it, I only had your blog to go on.”

Another gulp of her drink. “My blog? You-you’ve read my blog?”

“Yes. I’ve read it.” You state the fact as simply as possible in short, sharp sentences. She is struggling to some things still by now you’re used to a little crazy.

“But you said you hear-hear me writing it? Did you hear me writing earlier?”

“When you casually mentioned that I die tomorrow? Yes. I don’t hear, God, not all of it. I don’t know why…” you let out this laugh, all strangled and broken. It’s a laugh but you are not happy. The bitterness you’ve buried deep down comes crawling out of your throat. “I don’t know why I hear you at all! I don’t hear all of it though. And there are things I didn’t do, like-like I didn’t sleep with Dean.”

There’s something that looks like relief on her face, which she explains when you pointedly stare at her, “oh I wouldn’t have felt good about forcing you to…you know.”

“You’re planning on killing me.” You deadpan.

She looks like she has no idea what to say to that and you have a thousand things to say, that's kind of why you did the drive, so you continue. “Don’t get me wrong, I kissed him and I think I like him but how do I know when I can hear you? You’re in my head whenever he’s around telling me what I’m feeling and what I’m thinking and… how do I know what’s real and what's your imagination?”

Emma is staring at the melting ice cube in her almost empty glass like she hasn’t heard a word you said, lost in her disbelief. You let her stare. You're trying to be patient, you can appreciate that you’d had a lot longer to get used to this than she had.

“I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe you’re sitting there in front of me, drinking my tea. Talking about my story like it’s…”

“Real?”

She nods, afraid of what might come out of her mouth if she opens it again.

You take a sip of your tea. “Now you know how I felt when I read Supernatural and then Sam and Dean showed up.”

“Wait, you’ve read Supernatural?”

“You didn’t know?”

She shakes her head and you realize that she’d never mentioned it. Your imminent death sure, but she’d never mentioned the books you read and how disarming it had been to meet the characters from them. Only that it was disarming to find out monsters existed at all.

“Fuck, that means Sam and Dean are?”

You manage to smile at that and the idea of her finding your existence to be more impressive than theirs. Even with her bumper sticker. “Yeah, they’re real too. They’re hunting the shifter literally as we speak.”

She creases her brow, “they’re not? They didn’t want to come here?” She must be thinking back to Chuck, to the story of the writer in the book, and how Sam and Dean couldn’t help but investigate.

“I didn’t tell them about you. I mean, I kind of thought I was going crazy at first. Even when you were right about everything I only thought you were right because you were a figment of my imagination, or like, a tumor. I only realized you were,” you wave a hand in her direction, tired of saying the word ‘real’ again, “when I found the story. It’s good, by the way. The story I mean. I read a lot of books, I guess you already knew that, and this is up there. That’s not biased because it’s about me. I thought it would have been weird but actually it was nice to see my life through your eyes. You made me more important.”

Emma nods somehow understanding even if she has no clue, “I can’t believe you read it. Although if we’re playing the game of what I can’t believe the most, it’s definitely still sitting here talking to _you_.”

Your mind goes back to that part of the story you hadn’t heard but you’d read on your phone. The paragraph had stuck in your head when you read it and in the days since it repeats at particularly quiet moments.

> Y/N had never considered herself the main character, not even in her own life. Main characters, those in the books she read, were always so interesting. A tragic past or a troubled present and the perfect amount of development for an interesting future. These characters kept her reading in bed till three in the morning because she needed to know how they would handle their next danger or heartbreak. Or how would that particularly brilliant one figure out who the murderer was with nothing to go on. Main characters could be anything or anyone and next to them Y/N felt so helplessly ordinary. She woke up five days a week and went to her job, she paid her bills on time and went for groceries on Sunday mornings. She always thought she was a supporting character, black and white in a world of color.
> 
> She was, of course, absolutely irrefutably wrong.

You hadn’t believed it, a part of you still didn’t believe it now, but that was before you saw the way Emma looked at you. Granted she was the person who wrote it, and yet it was still there in her eyes. Awe. Past the shock and disbelief, this woman was in awe of sitting in a room with _her_ main character. And you remember how you felt reading the story, how much you’d wanted to know what happens. Not only because you wanted to know how you were going to die but because in her story you really were the leading lady. Sam and Dean, the characters you’d poured yourself over in the books, were playing second string to your story arc. You remember how beautiful her words had been and by association, how beautiful you’d been.

That's when you decide to ask the question. The one that you've lost sleep thinking about, the one that you came all this way to ask. Except as it comes tumbling out of your mouth you're not quite cautionary. You're eager to find out.

“How is it going to end?” 

* * *

Your house is quiet when you arrive home. It’s barely dark outside but you’ve driven for more hours than you’re used to. Exhausted does not come close describing how you feel. It’s more than a physical exhaustion—although your back is definitely mad at you—after you’d spent hours talking to Emma you’re mentally ready to check out.

Not check out of life, although, in the end, you’d left that decision up to her.

She let you read where she was up to, which was about ready to finish the penultimate chapter. Then she’d mentioned she’d have to revise it now. Even though it was perfect. Even though you found yourself smiling at the screen because it was _that_ perfect.

In all the work to find her, you never stopped to consider that maybe you shouldn’t find her. You weren’t ready to die but you’re finding it hard to decide if you’d get a better-written death than the one written by Emma Effiel.

Yes, that’s an absolutely crazy thing to think and Emma had told you it was crazy when you’d dare to say it to her. And it _is_ crazy. In the end, you'd argued with yourself while storming around her coffee table, making cases for both endings and neither endings.

There was a reason you'd left this decision up to her. You couldn't make it.

If she killed you then at least you’d live forever in literature, and if she didn’t, at least you might get some peace and quiet. Although, if she does kill you, you told her to find a book publisher already so it would at least be worth it.

You should eat but after weeks of a thousand reasons to not sleep your bed is finally calling you. Which is why your phone rings.

“Dean?”

“You want the good news or the bad news?” He sounds more tired than you, not that it's a competition. He's just winning anyway.

You kick your shoes off, “there’s good news?”

A pause that could be a shoddy connection. “Alright, you got me. The bad news ain’t so bad though. The lead was a bust, the guy had been wormfood for weeks but it's not the end of the world. We'll find it."

There's a knock at your door, "thanks for letting me know. Listen, I've gotta go, someones at the door and then I am going to sleep for a really long time. Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Someone's there?" You wonder if he's always so nosy. You don’t remember that in the books.

Pushing yourself against the door, you check the peephole, "it's only Laura, she’s probably dropping off some new case for me or something. I am still _supposed_ to be working remember."

Dean must hear how calm you are at your friend showing up because he sighs all relieved down the other end of the phone and Laura knocks again. "Sorry, I really have to go. I'll call you tomorrow Dean."

There's some muttering with someone else and then a faint, "sure," as you hang up. Not that it matters. You could see Dean tomorrow, you hoped to see him tomorrow. In case it does end up as your last day on earth.

Laura grins when you open up, "Hi Y/N. Had something to stop by and bring you."

"And there I was thinking that you missed me.” You feign hurt in your voice. “It’s fine I've got some paperwork anyway, think you could take it in on Monday for me?"

She follows you inside and the last thing you hear is the lock close and, "that's fine. Perfect actually."

You turn back to Laura with a small stack of forms from the bank in your hands. That’s when she rams the butt of her gun, a gun you hadn't seen, against the side of your head.


	10. The Final Chapter

> Y/N had not spent much extended time in her basement since her best-laid plans of turning it into anything other than storage had fallen through. It was a room she visited often, her washer and dryer both under the stairs, but visits were limited to transporting clothes in and out of the room in various states of cleanliness. The basement was her nagging project, which every home is legally required to have. She would presort her clothes before she ever went down the stairs, giving her ample time while loading the machines to think about her never to be completed masterpiece. Did she want some sort of rec room or maybe a space for those craft projects that sat forgotten around her home? She understood the game, that nothing would change, the room would remain a combined laundry and storage space until the day she died. Of course, she was right.
> 
> She’d never noticed the drip before. The sporadic yet incessant plop of water somewhere in the pipes that circled her basement and supplied her home. The drip might not necessarily mean something was wrong and it might not require an expensive plumber, it's just she hadn’t spent enough time down there to hear it at all.
> 
> As she opens her eyes the drip is the only sound that registers besides the ringing in her head. A headache pounds at her skull and an ache on her right says she’ll have a bump there. All of which she supposes she can thank Laura for. She keeps thinking of Laura, her face, and her name because it’s easier than to admit the truth. Y/N knows what a shifter is and unlike the majority of people, she knows that they are real. She knows one was in town and she knows that it wasn’t Laura who held the gun to her face before knocking her out with the butt of the thing. All this knowledge, however helpful, was still not enough to save her.

“Shit, shit, shit.” you mutter under your breath. You’re finally coming back to consciousness as Emma’s voice brings you up to speed. It’s almost comforting now to have a name behind it, her. That consolation prize is still of little help when you wake up with your hands cuffed behind the load-bearing beam in your own basement. You’re grasping for any friend you can and Emma, being in your head, is the closest thing you have. Maybe the last friend you’ll have.

Although if she kills you for her story, the term friend might be a bit of a stretch.

It does _absolutely_ sound like she is going to kill you though.

You hear a door open from above, “are you awake yet?”

The voice doesn’t sound like Laura. You’ve heard Laura’s phone voice and her speaking-to-the-manager voice. You’ve heard her greet visitors and greet you first thing in the morning. That is definitely not Laura. Well, of course, it’s not Laura, but it’s also not someone using her body like a puppet.

“Yes?” you call back. It’s possible you’re inviting danger by answering but you’re handcuffed and almost certainly going to die today. How much more dangerous can things get?

> The first wooden step groaned under the weight of the woman still shrouded in mystery at the top of the stairs. The second step followed suit with an equally mournful ache. Never had Y/N considered that her battered basement stairs sounded so hopeless. The room wasn’t dark, the lights were on despite the small basement window displaying daylight. There was barely enough shadow to hide a blemish but the sound of her stairs filled her veins with ice, as if she was lost on a cold night. Each creak took what seemed to be an hour, a day, before the next footstep pierced the last. It was on the ninth step from the bottom when Y/N caught the first glimpse of her captor.
> 
> A foot, followed by another.
> 
> A leg and then shockingly, a second.
> 
> Y/N knew before she saw. She knew before her favorite battered t-shirt came into view. She knew before her round chin, her slightly uneven ears, and her very own eyes appeared staring at her.

“Hey there, me!” A copy of your voice greets without your lips moving.

It hits you then, it was you at the top of the stairs. Not the voice you hear when you speak but the shadow version from when you’re forced to listen to a voicemail or video recording of yourself. The one that sounds nothing like _you_.

Yet just like that, there you are.

The shifter smiles and it’s the first time you’ve ever really seen yourself smile. You’ve felt the curve of your lips before and seen a reflection in mirrors but now you can see it.

You wonder if it’s always looked that terrifying.

> As the shifter leaned in close enough for Y/N’s eyes to pick out the small white scar above her eyebrow—a scar that she knew matched the one on her own face—she wanted to scream. Even if it would do no good. She wanted to think herself superior to the monster wearing her face. She wanted to try to claim that there was something wrong with it. A sparkle that wasn’t present in its eyes or a hairline that was lower than it should be. Unfortunately, inches from her face was a perfect carbon copy. It had gone as far as copying the bags under her eyes; the product of too many late nights. If Y/N didn’t know that it wasn’t her, then even she would be fooled. The experience was a messy one to try and accept, let alone have it happen in front of her.

“This is weird for you, I get it. But listen, I gotta ask. How do I get your toaster to not burn the bread? Because I’ve gone through, like, four slices and it’s still black as hell. What’s the magic setting Y/N?”

You sniff at the smell that’s followed the shifter down the stairs. Burnt toast.

“You-you want me to tell you how to use my toaster?” You sound incredulous because you are.

She steps back, takes a seat on the second step from the bottom like she’s exhausted standing up. Your face, the one she’s wearing, gets this kind of humored look. Her eyebrows raise and she smirks from across the room, “I know it sounds crazy. I mean I can dive in your head if I want.”

As she says that she scrunches her face and seems to strain with something unseen. You don’t need to ask if it’s working because you feel it, whatever she’s doing. Your spine jolts and freezes, straight as an arrow, and you’re clenching your jaw for some reason. Your body tenses like it’s being invaded.

Then she smooths out her face and you flop like overcooked spaghetti.

“See, that’s not fun for either of us. Plus now I have this big download of you in my head that I’ve gotta sort through, and that wasn’t even all of it. Which, by the way, it’s not easy to find exactly what I’m looking for, there's no google for your memories. So, yeah, it’s easier if you tell me how I use your toaster.”

She seems patient. You’re pretty patient so is that your trait or hers? Clearly, it’s not her first rodeo waiting on people to get to grips with talking to themselves. She kindly gives you a second to process having had her inside your head.

Because you don’t have enough people in there already.

“It’s eh, you need to toast at like two. I know that seems low, but it’ll be medium brown?” It’s not a question, you know how to use your toaster. You’re simply confused about _why_ you’re telling the shifter how to use your toaster.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? Do you want some? Toast I mean?”

Were it not for the metal handcuffs still cold against your wrists then her offer might be caring. As it is, it’s a shifter in your body. You’re not sure if it’s capable of the emotion.

It sucks that your stomach chooses then to rumble.

“I’ll make you some anyway. You like…no wait let me find this one myself…” she pauses as if trying to remember a password for an account she hasn't used recently. “Smooth peanut butter?”

“Um. Yeah but I’m out.”

She hoists herself up and tsks above you, “you need to take better care of yourself Y/N. Go shopping once in a while. Live a little, buy the peanut butter.”

It takes half the time to get up the stairs that it took her to come down them and she’s careful not to slam the door at the top. So, she’s already learned how loud the door is if you put an ounce of effort into closing it.

> The beam at her back is wide enough that the corners dig into each of her shoulder blades. Consequently, she has to decide between suffering or sitting forward a little but straining her wrists against the metal holding her. With the shifter out of sight, she can pull at the shackles and try to find any leverage. She can try but she keeps failing. They’re not pinching, not tight enough for that, still tight enough that she only has one comfortable position. So, it’s her back or her wrists. Y/N chooses her wrists and sinks back against the pain in her shoulders.
> 
> Above her, she can hear the shifter shuffling around her kitchen. _Her_ kitchen. Y/N is not so territorial that she cannot share her plates and bread, she draws the line at her face. Her body. Her life.

The shifter comes back down the stairs after a few minutes with two plates. “I’ve got plain butter and strawberry jam. Seriously, you have jam and not peanut butter? Which one do you want?”

“I-I erm…”

“Let’s share.”

She sits down in front of you, not at the foot of the stairs, in front of you. Legs crossed the same as yours and close enough that your knees almost touch. To an outsider you might be friends, or twins, having a sleepover and sharing secrets. That’s when you realize she has no intention of uncuffing you to eat. She takes a bite from one plate and then holds a slice from the other up to your mouth.

When you glare at her instead of opening up she sighs, “I don’t have to be this nice. I’m not usually this nice.”

“This is nice? You knocked me out and now I’m handcuffed in my own basement.” You take a bite of the toast while it’s sitting there, hovering in front of your face. You had bought the bread after all.

She hums happily. “This is practically best friends. I don’t make food for anyone else. Granted I usually only have them locked away for a few days. A few bottles of water gets them through. You though? You’re special.”

Special? You’re not special. Never have and never will be. The most special thing about you is the other people in your life. Sam and Dean. Emma. They are all special and you are the byproduct of a situation. You only convinced yourself that you were anything close to the main character because Emma wrote it. She tricked you into believing it.

The shifter takes another bite of her slice of toast, funnily enough, she’s eating the jam covered toast. So, in certain death, you’re still stuck with the second string choice. Plain butter.

When you swallow she holds the slice up again and you comply. "Why are you doing this?" You ask with food in your mouth, manners are a social construct that seems ridiculous in this situation.

The question is obvious and banal but it's sitting right _there_. And you needed to know the answer.

"Money." She takes another bite herself.

You scoff. That's enough to set her off.

“Sometimes things are just about money. That’s it. I like nice things and I have a good little racket going, I roll into town and find a few medium fish. Small business owners and cynical people usually have pretty decent policies. I take over the role of loving spouse for a day or two, get my money, and go. It’s been working out for me. I stay moving, only hit a few anywhere I go. Between, I travel wherever I want. I’ve done most of Asia, Europe, South America is my favorite for food.”

> Y/N had never been a fan of the villainous monologue as a literary device, then again, in books, the villain strode about a nondescript location with sweeping arms and overused cliches. This villain, her villain, was not so stereotypical. She sat and talked to Y/N like an old friend might lament about a bad break up. And even though it was the shifter who had put her in this situation in the first place, the doppelganger version of herself truly seemed to care if she ate her toast. Not that she had any sympathy for the shifter. Y/N just hadn’t appreciated the villainous monologue until she had been the person waiting to hear the full story. Nobody cares what the monster has to say until _they_ are the victim.

“But you? You gave me an idea.”

You splutter, “what?”

“Yeah, see there I was waiting for my money that never came. I was all ready to take a nice little vacation somewhere idyllic, south of France, maybe? Beautiful this time of year. And I know the paperwork was all put through because I watched you do it. I was standing at your desk, or Laura was, pretending to care about your sad weekend plans when you did it. And my money never came through. At first, I was furious because, frankly, I need to get out of town. With the Winchesters of all people on my trail, it’s time for me to exit stage right if you know what I mean. Then I was chatting up Mark about you not being in the office the past few days and, cool as a cucumber, that idiot told me you’d gone to the bank to stop the transfer.”

She slaps both her hands on your knees, digging her duplicate fingers into your flesh. The hair on the back of your neck stands to attention. That's the moment. Not where you _think_ , but where you _know_ you’re going to die.

“And I thought, wow! I bet she doesn’t even know how much _power_ she has. I mean Laura was a glorified word processor and Mark doesn’t do anything, he’d delegate tying his own shoes if he could. But you Y/N? Well, me now. Us? We can do it all. No more kidnapping widows and threatening them to keep quiet after I’ve gone. I can write my own ticket and if it hadn’t been for you cutting me off, I would have never figured it out. I can run this racket as you for a year and I’ll be all set.”

“A year? How are you going to keep me…?” You know the answer, obviously, call it morbid curiosity that you want to hear it from her own, or your own, mouth.

She smiles, that dangerous one you didn’t know your face was capable of, “oh, I’ll have to kill you. No way I’d keep you under wraps for a year, too much upkeep, but if you wanna feel better about it, think about all the people I _won’t_ kill pretending to be you! You’re taking one for the team.”

> Y/N wanted to say she felt sick. She wanted that acrid taste of stomach acid on the back of her tongue. Or fat tears welling in her eyes. She’d even accept a tremble of fear. She wanted any physical reaction to the words that had been said. That she, Y/N Y/L/N, mild-mannered insurance adjuster was going to die at the hands of this monster. Yet nothing came forth. As if every nerve, every blood vessel, every cell had ceased to take orders from her brain. That or her brain was too busy comprehending to give the orders.
> 
> What’s worse, she had no one to blame but herself. It was her own face she was staring into and it would be her own hands that would do the job.

“Wh-when?” If your voice was tangible, it would be shaking like a leaf despite the rest of your body being stuck in place.

She jumps up, calm, “I have some things to do first. Need to do the full Vulcan mind-meld if I’m taking over, and I hate doing it on an empty stomach. Hence the toast. Why? Are you in a rush or something?” She laughs at her own joke and finishes with a shrug when you don't join in, before picking up both the plates. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish this for you.”

She starts walking up the stairs and you rush to ask the other obvious question, “why did you tell me all this?”

“What? I can’t want someone to talk to? Sue me, I’m a people person.”

The door at the top of the stairs closes sharply this time. You assume it’s on account of the plates in her hands that she can’t be more careful.

This was all your fault. It’s one thing to tell Emma that, in theory, she can kill you, it’s another thing altogether to speak to the monster who will do it.

More than that, you stopped the payment, you suggested flushing the shifter out and for what? To get Dean to stay a little longer? To save some people?

What about _you_? You were people, still are for the time being. One moment of weakness while reading a pretty story and now it’s actually going to happen.

Today’s the day you’re going to die.

* * *

There’s no clock in your basement, you have no idea of the time or how long you’ve been down here. You know it’s still daylight outside, you can see it, that’s it. So, you have no idea how long she’s been digging in your head for. It’s not uninterrupted but it is constant. She doesn’t ever pause long enough for the buzzing behind your eyes to stop. You’ve given up on comfort—that’s a concern for people with hope—but every time she starts again your straight back pushes into the post behind you. If another person in your head wasn’t enough then your back feeling like it’s going to split right down the middle was the cherry on top of the sundae.

> Y/N swore that she could feel every memory, every thought, slip from her head. Not delicately either, but rather pulled kicking and screaming. Every experience hidden in the deepest, darkest corners of her mind, every last one, was found, counted, and copied. In reality, she had no idea what was being done or how it worked. She had no words to describe it and no understanding of what was being taken and when.
> 
> Although she figured that on today of all days, she could cut herself some slack. Lean into the dramatic thoughts that she wouldn’t normally.
> 
> She wondered how her parents would feel, retired in Florida, wondering where she is at Thanksgiving. Or how would those friends that she's hung onto since highschool react when she didn’t arrive for their monthly dinner. And Dean. She’d never get to tell him that she likes arguing with him, when he apologizes with a kiss.
> 
> Y/N’s life wasn’t full of too many people, which meant the select few she did have were all the more important. Every one of them had an appearance in her head, in the brief moments between what she was beginning to call torture.

You slump again, as much as the handcuffs allow you. The strain in your arms is the least of your worries since the shifter is back.

The you that floats down the stairs is all the things you’re not; happy and comfortable. She bypasses you completely as if you’re not even there. It’s only when she does that you register your ringtone from across the room.

“Forgot I’d left this down here”, she explains as she digs through your jacket that you must have had on when she knocked you out.

Whoever it is she rolls her eyes before answering, “hi Dean.”

You perk up at the mention of him because you’d forgotten what he is. A hero. What was that motto? Saving people, hunting things.

The relief doesn’t last long. As soon as you open your mouth she’s across the room, faster than you can usually move, with her hand clamped over your mouth.

“Like I said, Laura was dropping off some paperwork.”

“Um-hmm. Nothing on the shapeshifter? That’s a shame, it’s only Saturday though. She might have only just found out about the money.”

“That sounds great.”

Between everything, there’s a Dean sounding muffled voice on the other end of the phone. And although she keeps her tone measured she ticks her jaw at the word ‘shapeshifter’.

“Ok. Bye Dean.”

She ends the call and looks at you again, with more recognition than when she'd shared food with you. “Somebody didn’t tell me that she’s a few sandwiches short a picnic, did she?”

Your eyes widen. There’s no way she knows about Emma. That’s not a memory, it’s inside of you.

“And you never told those annoying hunter boys that you’re hearing voices? Or one voice anyway. Come on Y/N, that’s like victim 101.” She taps your temple as if she’s checking if there's still a brain in there.

“I didn’t think it was their kind of thing. Not like you are.” All the effort you have left in your being goes into narrowing your eyes at her. Even if you’re the furthest thing from a threat.

She laughs at that, “doesn’t matter sourpuss. They already trust you, so they already trust me. The Winchesters don’t stay anywhere for too long. They’ll leave and I get to go on being you.” She bops a finger on your nose.

You laugh at that. You've read the books, you’ve met them and you’re talking to another dumb monster that thinks she can outsmart them. You’d forgotten because it’s wearing your face and threatens you with sugar instead of spice, still, it’s a monster.

You might die but so will she.

“That’s funny. Do you think they won’t figure you out? They’re the _Winchesters_.”

“You know I was wondering where your fire was. I knew it had to be in there. Underneath the bookworm, paperwork pariah thing.”

“I’m not a pariah.” Obviously that’s what you find most offensive about her evaluation.

“Sure you are. Lonely little lamb. It’s fine though, I’m being nice to you, aren’t I?”

Retrospectively you realize that with Dean you’d been a cute angry, annoying combination. At the shifter, you’re plain furious, except it’s dampened by sadness. Not fear, the fear comes in an underwhelming third place.

“When?” You grind out.

She slips your phone into your jeans, unfortunately, it’s the pair she’s wearing. “I need to pee. Give me a hot minute. I don’t know, what’s the line? Say your goodbyes or prayers, or something.”

> The timer that had started when Y/N first picked up that file weeks ago was finally counting down its last minutes. Unlike a bomb timer in every television show ever, there was no wire for her to cut. Nothing to do but wait and appreciate that she couldn’t hear the ticking of each second. That might be better, the counting would feel urgent like she can change it. She can’t. She’d never been able to. All roads, no matter how long and winding, have always led her to this point. Had Y/N not tried to flush the shifter out there would have been some other absurd reason for the monster to hunt her down. Which is why she is so under control, it’s been a long time coming. She's feeling a thousand emotions but none of them turbulent.

Surrounded by pipes in the basement you hear a flush from the bathroom. The shifter had, actually, put killing you on hold to pee. You add insulted to the list of last sentiments you'll ever feel.

You can't even write a letter or a note. One last phone call or voicemail. It's all frustratingly out of your reach. The shifter isn't going to let you leave anything behind because to the outside world she is going to keep going in your place.

Your basement door has never opened as many times as it has today. Still, there it is again. Whining wood opening and closing. Your captor in front of it brandishing your biggest kitchen knife like a maniac in a bad horror.

> Y/N never wanted to believe she was subject to something as mundane as routine despite it being obvious that she was. She only needed to examine a week in her life, or a day, to notice the repetitions she couldn’t escape. Still, she tried. Like every person who woke up at the same time every morning or sunk into sleep like clockwork each night. Y/N struggled to buck against the system. She won some battles, enough to believe that she could keep winning but ultimately she lost the war. The biggest loss was reflected back to her in her own kitchen knife. No. It was in her own eyes when the shifter bent down and leveled its honeyed threats.

“I won’t say this isn’t going to hurt. It’ll be quick though, I’m not completely evil.”

> She could not escape routine because there had never been an exit. She was always supposed to play this predictable role. The victim. The one who dies seconds before the hero's entrance. The one who could have been saved if only they’d been a minute earlier. She was the sacrifice that distracts the killer long enough to be caught. Y/N was well aware of the character trope she filled.
> 
> Then it was in this final moment that she had been fooled by fate one last time. Y/N was indeed about to die. Imminently. But Y/N would not be dying at the hands of some mediocre monster.

For the last time, you find yourself shocked at Emma’s words, for the last time you respond to her out loud. Struck by confusion so completely that you can't help yourself. “What the…?”

The door that’s dictated your life for the last day opens carefully. If you couldn’t see it past the shifter you might not believe it had opened at all. Dean is at the top, Sam trailing behind him, his extra height visible over Dean’s shoulders.

And they see you. Dean sees you.

Then he sees the knife. He sees the shifter he doesn’t know is you yet, her back to him. He sees her leaning into you with one last comment whispered in your ear and that knife. Big and sharp as it is, held against your body, your throat, ready to slice you a second smile.

That’s all he sees; you, a weapon and a monster.

> Dean isn’t a shoot first, ask questions later guy, he’s an ask questions with the barrel of his gun kind of guy. A middle ground that has served him well. That’s not to say he has that patience in every situation. Sometimes he needs to exert some knee jerk force. Like when he’s standing at the top of her basement stairs, blood pounding in his ears above the din of everything else. Dean can’t hear Sam or the shifter or the sound of the wood under his boots. He hears exactly two things. Y/N’s gasp, half caught in her throat, and the stiff, satisfying crack of his gun as he fires it—once, twice, three times.

The knife falls from her hand as the shifter simultaneously falls forward. She’s about as heavy, or exactly as heavy, as you are, so you are not overwhelmed by the weight of the body. The shock is the residual confusion of her being you, and you falling on top of you. The shifter landing takes more of your focus than the feeling in your gut.

You don’t even feel _that_ at first.

Not when you’re so relieved to see them. The boys. You’re convinced for a moment that Emma was wrong, you’re not the last killed victim, you’re the one saved at the last second. You’re the person carried out of danger by the Winchesters.

When she does slump over you the boots start moving again, thunderous steps by them both as they rush to check if the shifter is dead. Three silver bullets should be enough but they have been caught out before.

They haven’t hit the concrete floor of your basement yet when the heat starts. Tingling, scratchy, burning through your abdomen. You’ve never imagined what it’s like to be shot, never heard a gunshot in your administrative based life, except those fake ones in movies. You’d have thought it hurt more. You’d have thought a bullet tearing through your flesh would have a little more of a kick. In truth the thing piercing you hadn’t been any worse than a punch, there was a push from the impact but the bullet was fast. The hole wasn’t what got your attention.

The burning did. Lodged inside you the metal was the epicenter for an itch you couldn’t scratch. You couldn’t tell where the bullet had found a home, only that it was unreachable and _there_ , and the ache was starting to become painful. Exponentially painful and not made any better by the weight of your stunt double crushing you. You had the strength to swallow the pain or the strength to push her off. Not both. So, she doesn’t move until Dean is there yanking her away from you.

She’s dead, at least.

Her eyes, your eyes, are lifeless now. Blank and staring into nothing. That’s a hard pill to swallow because she’s not the shifter anymore. The shifter is dead. Now she's just an empty shell that looks like you, while you sit there with a bullet in your gut. It’s an immediate prophecy of what you will become. An accurate prophecy too, because it’s you. Dead, cold, and not very pretty to look at.

It’s natural that they both check the dead shifter first. To make sure she’s dead. That’s their job, they're doing it right.

They only look at her for a second to confirm but by the time they turn to you the blood is starting to seep through your shirt. You still haven’t found a way to form words. You try and don’t get very far. Your throat is croaky and grinds like sandpaper. You’re not gargling blood at least and some last remaining functional brain cell thinks that’s good. You don’t have blood in your lungs.

All at once, they crowd you.

“Y/N, you’re ok. You’re ok.” That’s Sam. His hands are pressing at the hole to stop the bleeding, you don’t have the voice or the heart to tell him he’s making it worse. Maybe not medically but it’s more painful with his hands there. The bullet doesn’t like being agitated and your stomach doesn’t like the pressure.

“Y/N, honey no. Shit. Come on, stay with me.” That’s Dean, he’s the one with his hands on your face, pulling your eyes to him because he is the one giving you orders to not leave. He needs to see you hear the instructions.

Sam lies to you and tries to fix the problem. Dean begs you to stay when you can’t.

Suddenly, or not suddenly, you have two new choices. Stay awake or don’t.

Except it’s not really a choice at all. 

* * *

> Y/N slipped in and out of consciousness in her last moments.
> 
> In the back of a car her eyes flutter open. Her vision is blurry like it’s the first moments after waking up on a Sunday morning. This blurriness doesn’t go away. The cream roof above her looks soft and inviting. She wants to feel it, lean against it. She can’t move in any meaningful way, not enough to touch it, it’s too far.
> 
> Briefly, again, when metal doors slam shut. She's distracted from the weak place beyond her pain by the sound.
> 
> In the hospital, jolted by the gurney beneath her as tubes are inserted into her body. Her nose specifically. The plastic feeling like a blockage instead of an airway. She’s not coughing up blood so she manages to wonder why she needs a tube inside her, although she’s not a doctor. She reaches for it because her arm still has mobility and she can’t breathe, but a hand stops her. She reaches again and more hands pin hers down. Her red, swollen wrists are strapped to the bed. She can’t move again, restricted. Another prison.
> 
> She doesn’t wake again. She doesn’t complain about the tubes or question the strange taste in her mouth from the drugs in her system. She’s lost so much blood. The bullet is deep and today is the day. It’s still Saturday. It’s still imminent.
> 
> It wasn’t a shifter, she was collateral damage. A secondary consequence of saving the day. A victim of fate.
> 
> By a bullet from Dean’s gun, Y/N dies. 

* * *

You open your eyes.

How are you opening your eyes? You’re supposed to be dead.

It takes an age to take in the fact that you are alive and that there’s a faint beep somewhere that signifies a heartbeat. Yours. The room is white, clean, and as much as you can see from lying down, a hospital.

You manage to groan. It’s cathartic to make a noise, and painful. You can’t forget painful.

“Miss Y/L/N?” A man comes into your vision. The bed moves, not enough to upset you but give you a better angle to have a conversation. You see a little more of the world that you’re not supposed to be seeing because you’re supposed to be dead.

The man, the doctor, beams at you. “You gave us quite a fright Miss Y/L/N. We thought we lost you there for a minute but you are a very lucky young lady indeed.”

You’re not _that_ young and you’re not lucky. This is impossible. You were dead.

You try to speak and this time you find purchase, “what happened?”

He has the audacity to chuckle, but then you're alive so that might warrant laughter. “A lot, Y/N. You've been out of surgery for about six hours now and we had to keep you sedated while you had a blood transfusion but as I said, you’re a lucky woman. That bullet was solid on impact with no fragment complications. It seems the um, _issue_ , was blood loss and some trauma to your stomach which we’ll talk about once you’re off these I.V’s. But for now, you need to rest, I’ll have a nurse check on you in a few minutes.”

He smiles, genuinely, but you suppose he’s managed to escape telling you anything further about the dying thing. He plops your chart back into the plastic holder at the foot of your bed as he leaves, which forces you to look in that direction.

“Dean?”

He’s there, stocky and wide and too much for the hospital chair he is sitting in. You want to say sleeping in but that would probably require him to be asleep. He seems to be more in a state of falling asleep and not quite making it. His arms are crossed over his chest and his head is down, however as soon as you call his name he shudders like he was nowhere near sleep at all. He looks up, all big green eyes, bright and awake, and looking at you.

He smiles. It’s soft and so far removed from the cocky bastard that you're used to by now. “You’re awake?”

“Looks like it.” You smile back, although it must look weak on you. “You’re here.”

Dean gets up slowly and takes measured steps towards you. You’re not distracted by the way he walks though, you’re distracted by the way his face creases in sadness at your question. He looks like he's burying something instead of saying it, right in front of you.

“Had to make sure you were ok.” **After I shot you**. He tries to hide the end of his sentence, you hear it anyway.

“I’m fine.” **It’s not your fault.** “Thank you for saving me.” You don’t want to argue with him from a hospital bed so you imply the part of your sentence he’d fight you on.

He is astute enough to catch what your face is attempting to relieve him of. His guilt. It won’t be as easy as that, hopefully, you'll have time later to work on him.

You didn't know what to do beyond this point. There's one thing to say for dying, and that's not having to think about the future. Who cares about the stock market if you die next week? Now you're laying there like a broken doll who's been taped back together, looking up at Dean and wondering what the next part of the story is. You suppose you're going to have to figure this one out on your own.

“What’s a girl gotta do to get a cup of tea around here?”

“Tea?” He asks, knowing where you're going with this.

“Tea.” You confirm.

This time his grin is dazzling. It covers all manner of sins and comes with some promises to boot. Through the aches, in your not quite whole body you feel him carefully cup your chin, his thumb ghosting over your cheek to make sure you’re still there. “Don’t go dying on me again and I think I can sneak you something terrible from the cafeteria.”

> As Y/N looked at Dean and took in that she was thankfully very much alive, and well beyond her time of death, she felt as if finally everything was going to be ok. She was no longer weighed down by concerns of routine or comparing literature to the real world because perhaps, in one day alone, she’d had more than enough excitement to last her for the rest of her life. Her new, second life. The one that was as clean and fresh as a blank slate could be. Although dying for a new start—even if that death was only three minutes and twenty seconds long—was quite dramatic and completely unrequired. Anyone, including Y/N, has the opportunity to change their life whenever they need to. Whenever they reach that bleak state of despair or, in Y/N’s case, a dull point of repetitive boredom. Solace can be found in even the most remote and lonely of places. It can begin with a new piece of literature or taking a new route to a familiar destination.
> 
> The things that take up the small moments, that seem like puzzle pieces required to navigate our days are, in fact, a series of thousands of choices. Any single one of which can change an entire life and lead to impossible suituations. Or serve to better ourselves in ways we’ve dreamed of but never hoped to achieve. Make us braver, stronger, funnier, or brilliant. Because we were all along, even when we didn’t know it, or even if we doubted it. It may sound utterly too easy, and that's because it is
> 
> Y/N didn't need to change, not really, not when she was unpredictable and brave all along. She only needed a nudge in the right direction and a good cup of tea, to save her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you stuck with me on this I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. This was a little passion project I’ve had in my head for a while. I hope y’all had fun.
> 
> Love you and thanks for reading!


End file.
